


What makes us who we are

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: What makes us who we are [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Gen, No Sex, Police Procedural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is a former police officer now unable to work because of his PTSD. He's caught up in a murder of an acquaintance, and only the kindness and support of his staunch friend, Porthos, and the determined detective work of Constance and D'Artagnan can retrieve him from the mess he's been flung into.</p>
<p>Warnings: Mention of canon accusations of attempted rape against a canon character, and of domestic violence against another canon character. The violence in the story is against both men and women, by men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“D’Artagnan, Bonacieux?”

“Sir?” d’Artagnan said, as Constance climbed off the edge of her desk to listen to Treville.

“Got a suspected murder on the estate near the river. Dead female, male suspect found at the scene.” DI Treville handed Constance the notes.

“We’ll take my car,” Constance said as she and d’Artagnan walked out to the parking area. “Yours is too flashy.”

“Yours is a pile of shit,” d’Artagnan shot back. But she was right. His bright red Renault Megane was a bit on the flashy side for something like this.

“It goes. That’s all I need.”

The house was in a quiet street in a quiet neighbourhood, but the scene outside was anything but, with nosy neighbours, and a couple of blokes d’Artagnan recognised. “Vultures have found it already,” he said, gesturing at the ‘gentlemen’ of the press hovering as close as they dared.

“Ignore them,” Constance said through her teeth, smiling at nothing at all.

The reporters duly snapped off a couple of shots of the two detectives walking up to the gate. Once they had put on protective booties and gloves, Constance introduced them to the uniformed officer in charge, and asked, “What do we have?”

“One deceased female in the kitchen. Been dead about six to eight hours, they think. One male, alive, injured, found unconscious next to her with the presumed murder weapon, in there,” he pointed to the living room through the front door.

“Unconscious?”

“He drinks, apparently,” the officer said, disgust in his tone. “The next door neighbour saw the front door wide open at six am when she went out with her dog. She found them both in the kitchen and called 999.”

“Right. The victim is what relationship to this man? Wife? Girlfriend?”

“We don’t know. We don’t have an ID on her and he’s not saying.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Constance motioned d’Artagnan to follow her into the house. “All right if we come in to question him?” she asked the SOCO working on the man in the living room.

“You can try.”

“Is he injured?”

“He has facial injuries, nothing more serious, but we’ll transport him to hospital as soon as you’re done for blood tests.”

The man the SOCO was cleaning up and taking samples from, was covered in blood almost literally. It was on his face, in his long, tangled hair and beard, and down his shirt and trousers. D’Artagnan crouched so he was level with the man’s face. “Sir? I’m Detective Constable d’Artagnan, and this is Detective Sergeant Bonacieux. Can you tell me your name?”

The man blinked slowly. “Athos.”

The SOCO handed Constance an evidence bag. “ID says he’s Oliver d’Athos.”

“Athos, can you tell us what happened here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember waking up this morning?”

“The police. There was blood.” He held up his hands and looked at them as if he hadn’t seen them before. “Was there another bomb?”

“A what? A bomb?”

“The blood. Because of the bomb.”

“Athos, what bomb?”

“The bomb. It went off. I tried to stop it.”

D’Artagnan frowned and looked at the SOCO. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“No sign of a bomb here, if that’s what you mean.”

Constance took his arm and drew him aside. “You go with him to hospital. I’ll stay here and see if we can ID the victim. What the hell is going on out there?”

D’Artagnan heard the shouting too. A man’s voice, very loud and very angry. “I’ll find out.”

Outside, there was a tall, well-built black guy arguing with the officer on guard at the gate. “That’s my mate in there! Let me talk to him. Is he all right?” The attempts to calm him down were having no effect at all. d’Artagnan stripped off the booties and walked over to the two of them.

D’Artagnan faced the black guy. “Who are you, sir?”

“Who are _you_? _”_

D’Artagnan showed his ID. “DC Charles d’Artagnan of the Met. Who are you?”

“Porthos Duvallon. This is my mate Athos’s place. What’s going on?”

“I’ll handle this,” d’Artagnan said to the PC, and took the big guy by the arm so he was hidden by a police van from the curious onlookers and the reporters. “When did you last see Athos, Mr Duvallon?”

“Last Saturday. I come over every Saturday morning. I keep an eye on him, cos he’s bad at looking after himself. Is he all right?”

“We don’t believe he’s injured, no. Does Athos have a girlfriend, a wife, anything like that?”

“God, no. He wouldn’t know what to do with one.”

“He’s gay?”

“No, he’s sick. Mentally ill, like really bad. PTSD.”

“Oh. And you’ve known him how long?”

The guy folded his arms. “Two years nearly. Look, what’s going on, mate?”

“I can’t tell you right now. We think he may have hurt someone. He won’t talk to us so we don’t know the details.”

“Him? He wouldn’t hurt no one. He’s been beaten up a couple of times. You know, skinhead types, picking on the crazy guy.”

“Someone said he drinks. Is he an alcoholic too?”

“Not as such. But yeah, he drinks too much sometimes. He’s well fucked up, poor sod. Who did he hurt?”

“I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about that. Do you have any emergency contact information for him?”

The man pointed to his chest. “Yeah, me. No point in ringing the family. They don’t want nothing to do with him.”

“Can you give me your details, Mr Duvallon? And your phone number?”

The man recited his name, address, date of birth, and mobile number, which d’Artagnan carefully wrote down. “Why can’t I see him?”

“We’re taking him to hospital to be checked out. So as far as you’re aware, Athos has no woman friend or family member or acquaintance who might be visiting him.”

He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Sorry, can’t think of anyone. He ain’t got no sister, his mum’s dead, no girlfriends, and I think I’m his only mate. ‘Less it’s someone who works in a shop or something. You know, where he buys his booze and stuff. But I don’t know anyone specifically.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably have to speak to you again. This is my card. I’ll let you know what’s going on with him.”

The guy carefully tucked d’Artagnan’s card into his wallet. “If he’s in trouble, he should have a solicitor.”

“Don’t worry, all that will be explained to him. If he doesn’t understand, then we’ll call you and you can help with that. Okay?’

“All right. Will you tell him I came around? And I’m worried about him?”

“Of course. One more thing—please don’t talk to any reporters about this. But if you remember anything that might help us know what Athos was doing in the last twenty-four hours, please call me on that number.”

“Okay. Listen, I don’t know what you think he’s done, but he’s a good bloke. Real quiet and gentle and sad. He’s not a villain. Don’t hurt him?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Despite d’Artagnan’s caution, the reporters took the man’s photo as he walked away. Sensibly, he ignored them.

D’Artagnan went back into the house after putting on clean booties. The SOCO was now taking photographs of Athos’s face and hands. D’Artagnan drew Constance aside and spoke quietly to her. “I just spoke to someone who said he was his friend, Porthos Duvallon? Says he has severe mental health issues, so we better have someone check that out before he’s questioned.”

“They can do that at the hospital.” Constance turned to Athos. “Sir? We’re going to take you up to the hospital and have them run some blood tests and see if you need medical treatment.”

“Yes.”

“I am now arresting you on suspicion of murder and you do not have to say anything; but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”

“Yes.”

She looked at D’Artagnan. “I’ll see you later.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Constance returned to the station and Treville caught her as she walked back to her desk. “How was it?”

“Another dead woman at the hands of another man, the bastard.” Treville grunted in acknowledgement of the weary facts. He knew her issues with abusive men. “We don’t have any ID for the vic though. Her fingerprints aren’t in the system so we’re checking DNA.”

“And the bloke? He’s not said anything about her?”

“Not yet. D’Artagnan’s with him at the hospital. He was pretty out of it at the scene, talking about a bomb. Apparently he’s known to have mental issues.”

“A bomb? Terrorism?”

“Don’t think so. His name is Olivier d’Athos. Dosed up on prescription medicine and alcohol.”

Treville straightened up in surprise. “Olivier d’Athos? Are you sure?”

“Yes, at least that’s what his ID said. You know him?”

“I do. Come to my office, would you?”

Confused, she followed him, and shut the door behind her. “Sir?”

He was typing on his computer, and swung the screen around toward her. “Is this the man?” He showed her a picture which, if you added ten years, a beard and long hair, was Olivier d'Athos. The photo was of a young PC in uniform, smiling at the camera.

“Yes. Oh my God. He’s one of us?”

“Was. He worked with me for years, one of the finest and bravest officers I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

“What happened to him?”

“Do you remember that bomb that went off in on the High Street three years ago? In the coffee shop?”

“Of course. How could I forget it?” A disgruntled divorced father, angry at his ex-wife, had placed a nail bomb at the café where she worked. Four people, including a baby, had died, and a dozen people were seriously injured.

“But you don’t remember the name of the off-duty police officer who spotted what the guy was up to, tackled the bomber, was hit by shrapnel, and still tried to get people out of the café despite being injured? ”

“No...wait. The police commissioner’s son?”

“Olivier d’Athos, also known as Olivier Lafere.”

She sat down in shock. “Commissioner Lafere’s son. I just arrested him for murder.”

Treville gave her one of his level stares. “Well, Sergeant Bonacieux, I think we can expect some fairly intense scrutiny from on high over this one, don’t you?”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

D’Artagnan accompanied Olivier d’Athos back to the station, where he was booked into the cells. That was the easy bit. Interviewing him turned out to be an exercise in frustration. Not for the usual reason—the snotty high-fee solicitor who’d turned up to act for him and advised the suspect to say nothing when questioned—but because the man was totally cooperative and compliant, without having the first idea what had happened the night before.

Constance and d’Artagnan conducted the interview strictly by the book, as they would have done anyway even without the threat of the commissioner breathing down their neck. The solicitor, Ninon Larroque, sat in with her client, looking completely out of place compared to the usual legal aid/duty solicitors that turned up in these sort of situations.

“I have spoken to my client and advised him that he doesn’t have to answer your questions.”

“Yes, understood,” Constance said. “Let’s start with yesterday, Olivier.”

“Athos,” he corrected quietly. “No one calls me Olivier.” His politeness had already freaked them both out. He was so damn quiet and handleable.

“That’s fine. So, Athos. Can we start with where you were yesterday evening?”

The solicitor jumped in. “I’ve advised my client not to answer that question.”

“No, it’s okay, Ninon,” Athos said. “They’re just doing their job. I really don’t remember, sergeant.”

“From when don’t you remember? What about earlier in the day?”

Larroque opened her mouth and Athos turned to her. “It’s okay, really it is. Please?”

“This is against my advice.”

“I know. I...went out, I think.”

Constance frowned. “You think?”

“My client had documented mental health issues, Detective Bonacieux.”

“We're aware of that, Miss Larroque. Athos, what’s the last thing you remember yesterday?”

“I had a sandwich.”

“And what time would that have been?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it daytime? Night time?”

“Day. Yes. It was bright and warm.”

“And were you with anyone?”

“Detective—”

Again Athos ignored the expensive advice from beside him. “With Flea, I think.”

“And who’s Flea?”

“My friend. At the library.”

Constance opened the file. “For the record, I am showing Mr d’Athos a photograph. Do you know this woman, Athos?”

“That’s Flea.”

“That’s a nickname.”

He nodded. “Yes. I don’t know her real name.”

The interview continued on, Constance dragging out the answers despite the solicitor’s annoyance at her client’s failure to be a prick to the police. Athos remembered being at the library for some period in the afternoon. He couldn’t remember leaving or going home. He conceded he went to the library most days, and he had a sandwich with Flea—Felicity Owen, the dead woman—quite often. He also admitted that he often bought wine, sometimes something stronger, at the local off-licence on his way home after he left the library, and went home to drink. He didn’t have a television because he hated seeing violence on TV. He would have a drink and take his medication and go to bed. Sometimes he would read but he couldn’t remember doing that the night before.

He couldn’t remember seeing Flea either that night either, and the first thing he could remember this morning was a police officer asking him if he was awake. Then he was in his living room being spoken to by another officer. He said everything else was just not there to recall, though he tried to remember the rest of it when he was asked. Unless he was faking, he really couldn’t.

Larroque rounded on Constance when the interview was finished and Athos had been taken back to his cell. “You can’t hold him. You have no actual evidence he’s done anything but been a victim of crime himself.”

Someone had assaulted Athos, that much was certain. He was heavily bruised and the blood on him was all his own. But they had other evidence. “Look, we have him at the scene where she died, a murder weapon with his prints all over it, and he has no alibi. It’s murder we’re talking about here, Miss Larroque.”

“A weapon you can’t prove is his, a wide open front door, and wounds you can’t tie to the victim.”

“We can hold him for thirty-six hours, you know that. We’re working as fast as we can to determine what happened here.”

Larroque pursed her elegantly made up lips. “I want the evidence tested independently.”

“Of course. Do you want to wait until we’ve had a chance to falsify it first, or take it away before we’ve looked at it?”

That earned her an icy glare. “Don’t fuck this up, sergeant, or your career will be over.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Larroque. We’ll let you know when we need to speak to him again.”

D’Artagnan watched the woman go. “She seems nice. Not.”

Constance sighed. “She’s not wrong though. There’s something very weird about this case. Let’s look at what we have.”

They sat and reviewed what the SOCOs had gathered and went over the crime scene photos again. “No sign of forced entry,” d’Artagnan said. “So who else could have got in with a key?”

“Yeah but he’s a heavy drinker on sedatives and with significant memory gaps. The neighbour even said it’s not the first time she’d seen the door open and found him passed out on the floor. She usually just makes sure he’s in the recovery position and leaves him be.”

“Okay, so he leaves the door open. There’s no sign of a struggle at the scene.”

“Which is strange because the two of them must have been having a hell of a row to inflict those kind of injuries on each other. The neighbour heard nothing either.”

“So they fight, or he attacks her. Then he brings her home to stab her to death in his own house?”

His confusions mirrored her own. “Or he brings her home to rape her and she fights him off and he kills her?” Constance looked at the photos again. “She’s tiny. There’s nothing much to him but he’s six foot tall. He could overpower her pretty easily. Nothing under her fingernails though.”

“He’s an ex-cop. He knows to clean underneath. So does everyone who watches CSI.”

“Okay, but lack of evidence isn’t evidence. I hate to say it, Charlie, but this is beginning to look like it’s staged.”

He groaned. “Fuck. Why couldn't this be a nice simple domestic?” He caught her look. “Sorry, Constance.”

“You should be. No such thing as a ‘simple’ domestic.” The victim here had been one of the nice ones, too. Worked at the library, shy, kind, and she’d befriended a man most people would have shunned for his illness and drinking habit. And for her reward, she was now dead. “We should verify the timeline he set out, at the very least.”

CCTV and Flea’s co-workers confirmed that Athos was a regular at the library, coming in to read or just sit quietly on his own and watch the world passing by. He was never any bother, and Flea had always been the one to initiate conversations. He had been there on that Friday afternoon, leaving when the library closed at six, unaccompanied. He’d gone to the off-license and bought a cheap bottle of wine. He did that most days, according to the staff.

He’d been spoken to by local police officers several times not because he was causing a nuisance, but out of concern for his welfare when he was particularly out of it. Twice it had been because he’d been found knocked about by local yobs in the park.

Everything added up to a picture of a man far more in need of protection from the world than the world did from him. So why would he beat and kill the only person other than this Porthos Duvallon who ever spoke to him out of kindness?

The next morning she went to Treville. “Sir, I think we’ll have to let him go. We don’t have any evidence of him committing the actual murder, or even of assaulting her. There’s no DNA on him from her other than the blood, nothing on her either, no witness, no motive, nothing. Only the murder weapon, and that could have been planted. We found DNA from a third party in her injuries and some fibres which we can’t match to anything he owns. I think we’re looking for someone else here.”

Treville shook his head. “That’s just terrific, Constance. Did you see _The Sun_ this morning?” He pulled the paper out of a drawer and threw it on his desk in front of her. In typically restrained tabloid style, “HERO COP ARRESTED!” was plastered over the top of two photos, both of Athos—one taken three years ago, of him, covered in blood and dust carrying the broken body of a child from the bombed café, and the second of him being taken in cuffs from his house, also covered in blood. The article made much of the irony and of Athos’s family connections.

Constance touched the second photo. “If we let him go....”

“We’ll look like we’re playing favourites because of his father. If we charge him, his solicitor will tear this apart in five seconds and we’ll look like idiots.”

“Sir, I can’t in all conscience go to the CPS with this. Not yet. We have to let him go.”

“But he can’t go back to his house—it’s still a crime scene. And the reporters will be all over him if he does. I can’t do that to him, Constance. He’s a good man. He was a good police officer too.”

“His solicitor should know somewhere he can stay. He has a friend, Porthos Duvallon, who might help.”

“Let me worry about that, Constance. You and d’Artagnan need to find the person who really killed this young woman. Whoever it is, is also a danger to Athos, and he’s in no state to defend himself if they return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go back over the CCTV, and talk to her co-workers. Talk to everyone who knew her, and him. I’ll call the solicitor and then I need to speak to the commissioner. He’s not going to be happy either way.”

“No, sir.”

“Then get moving, sergeant. We have a murderer to find.”


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos got the call from Athos’s solicitor on Sunday morning, and wasted no time driving to the police station to pick up his friend. He hadn’t heard a word from him, or that bloody detective despite his promises, since the previous morning, and he’d fretted all night about Athos. Nothing Aramis said could calm him down.

Athos looked like shit. Someone had got him into clean clothes, but there was still blood in his hair and his face looked like raw steak. Porthos hugged him carefully. “All right?”

Athos looked at him. “Not really. I didn’t want to trouble you, but Ninon says I can’t go home yet.”

Porthos took his first real look at the posh blonde woman behind his mate. “It’s a crime scene,” she said. “I’ve offered for Athos to go back to his father’s house, but he refuses.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Porthos said, keeping a protective hand on his friend. “His father’s a bastard.”

“His father’s paying for my service, actually.”

“To keep his name clear, yeah, I bet. Are they gonna arrest him again? Athos, I mean?”

“I don’t know. All we need is somewhere safe for him to stay and someone to keep him out of trouble.”

“He’s no trouble to anyone, ever. You got his medication?”

“Yes, here.” She handed over a couple of bags, one with pills and the other with keys and Athos’s ID. “You should get him to his GP, or his psychiatrist.”

“I can handle it. Athos, you’re coming home with me and Aramis, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Porthos.”

Porthos hugged him again. “You ain’t done anything wrong, mate.”

Ninon gave Porthos her business card. “If he needs anything, or the police want to talk to him again, call me. Anytime.”

“He don’t need nothing from that shitarse dad of his.”

“Not from him. From me. I want to help. I think he’s been set up, and I hate that.”

Her clever blue eyes held just enough sympathy that Porthos believed her. “All right.”

He put Athos into his car and helped him buckle up. “I’m not incapable, Porthos,” Athos protested mildly.

“I know. Just want to keep you safe, is all.”

Athos smiled and stared out the window all the way back to the flat. Porthos had never brought Athos back there before. He wasn’t sure what Aramis was going to say. It was Aramis’s place, after all. But Athos had nowhere else, so what else could Porthos do.

He unlocked the door. “Love? We’ve got a guest.”

Aramis appeared from the kitchen, and beamed at the two of them. “Hello. You must be Athos. I’m Aramis.” He held out his hand and Athos took it. “You look done in, Athos. Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

“Would it be too much to ask to have a shower? I don’t have any clean clothes, but I can put these back on.”

“I have some things that might fit. Porthos, show him where the bathroom is and I’ll find them for you.”

Porthos mouthed “Thank you,” at his boyfriend and, with his arm around Athos’s skinny shoulders, led him to their bathroom.

Cleaned up, Athos looked worse in some ways. “Has anyone looked at your injuries?” Aramis asked when Athos sat down on the couch in Aramis’s old jeans and t-shirt. Porthos had pulled his long hair back into a ponytail so his face wasn’t covered any more.

“Just at the hospital.”

“Do they hurt?” Aramis came over to look, though not touch.

“A bit. I don’t remember getting them. I think Flea must have done it before I killed her.”

Porthos exhaled like he’d been punched. “Say again?”

“Flea. My friend from the library. I killed her. They say they’re not sure, but I must have done.”

“Do you remember doing that?” Aramis asked carefully. Porthos let him take over. He was the doctor in the house, after all.

“No. I don’t remember anything. But they found her in my kitchen with my prints all over the knife in her chest. It’s not exactly Agatha Christie, is it?”

Porthos touched Athos's hand. “Mate, they wouldn’t have let you go if it was all that straightforward. Would they, Aramis?”

“No.” Aramis was still looking at Athos’s injuries. “Were you knocked out?”

“They don’t think so. I must have blacked out. Maybe I drank too much.”

The calm, sad way Athos said that freaked Porthos out. “You don’t drink that much, Athos.”

“Maybe I did. I can’t remember. There was so much blood,” he whispered. “Like the bomb.”

Porthos took his hands. “No bomb, mate. Not this time. Athos, look at me. No bomb.”

Porthos could tell by the way Athos was staring but not at anyone or anything in the room, that he was lost in a flashback. All Porthos could do was rub his hands and talk to him until he shuddered, and suddenly he was aware of his surroundings again. “Porthos?”

“Yeah, mate. You’re okay.”

Athos looked around, obviously confused. “Where....?”

“You’re at our place. This is Aramis, my boyfriend. I told you about him.”

“The doctor.”

“Forensic pathologist, actually.”

Athos looked at Aramis. “Can you tell me if I killed Flea?”

“If your solicitor wants me to look at the police evidence, I’d be more than happy to in a professional capacity. Right now, maybe you should lie down, have a rest. I bet you didn’t sleep much last night.” Athos shook his head. “We have a lovely guest room. Do you want something to eat? No? Okay, then you lie down. We’ll be right here. You’re safe, Athos.”

Athos shivered, then hung his head and began to cry. Porthos put his arms around him and looked at Aramis helplessly. Aramis put his hand on Porthos’s shoulder. “Take him to bed, love. Make sure he’s warm and comfortable. Leave the door open.”

Porthos nodded. He got Athos to his feet and helped him, stumbling, to the spare room. Athos curled up in a ball on the bed, still shivering. Porthos covered him with a quilt Aramis’s sister had given them, and waited until Athos quieted again. Then he crept out.

Aramis took Porthos into his arms. “What a poor broken soul,” he murmured.

“Breaks my fucking heart, seeing like that. I could’ve been him, you know. Without you.”

“I know, love.”

“Will you help him?”

“Of course. Whatever we can do.”

“So you’re not mad I brung him back without asking?”

Aramis kissed him. “Love, this is your home too and I’d have been cross if you hadn’t on my account.”

“You think he could’ve killed this girl?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it seems unlikely. Someone’s hurt him badly though. Those bruises are nasty. I’d like to check him over properly later. What are you going to do with him next week when we’re at work?”

“Bugger. I haven’t thought about that. I just wanted him out of jail. You think Sylvie might look in on him?”

“She might. I don’t know if she’d be worried about her daughter, seeing what Athos might have done.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Porthos said. Sylvie was cool, and really kind. She didn’t work, since she was at home looking after her kid and her disabled mum, so if she wasn’t scared of Athos, that might work. “I better call round there in person. Can you watch him for me?”

“Of course.” Aramis kissed his forehead again. “You’re lovely, you know that?”

“Get off,” Porthos said, embarrassed but warmed anyway by his boyfriend’s sweet words. “I ain’t doing nothing special. He’s a good bloke.”

“So are you. Go on. I’ll make some soup for lunch. He might like that.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos dropped in at ASDA to pick up some groceries for Sylvie. She and her mum were on benefit and never had any spare cash, though they were always feeding the kids from the block, or dropping in to see if one of their neighbours needed a hand. He always tried to help out a bit, though she flat out refused to take money from him. He made sure he got meat, chicken, the expensive things they struggled to buy, but also the cereal Annie liked, and the instant coffee Sylvie and her mum preferred.

“Porthos, sweetie!” Sylvie kissed him when she opened the door. Then she saw the shopping bags. “Oh you didn’t. I told you about this.”

He forced the bags into her hand. “Need a favour, kiddo. So I’m softening you up.”

“As if you need to. Come in. Annie, look who’s here!”

Annie tottered over and demanded to be picked up. She’d only just learned to walk and Porthos was her favourite human pack animal. “Hey there, baby girl,” he said as he swung her into his arms. She immediately grabbed at his beard. “Ouch ouch ouch,” he said, putting his hands gently around her fingers.

“Annie baby, don’t hurt him.”

“She’s all right. How’s your mum today?”

“In bed. Pain’s bad.” Her mother, Bernice, had severe arthritis and there were plenty of days when she couldn’t move.

“Need any help?”

“If you could put all those lovely groceries away that you bought, that’s be good.”

“Car running okay?” He’d fixed up an old VW Golf that had failed its MOT and the owner had left it at the garage rather than pay the fees. His boss had let him take it so long as he did the repairs himself at his own cost. Sylvie didn’t need the car that often but it made a difference when she needed to get one of her family to the doctor, or get groceries in.

“Fine, thanks. You did such a good job on that old banger. Can’t thank you enough.”

“No need. It was gonna be sent to scrap if I didn’t fix it.”

She made tea and opened the biscuits he’d bought. “So what do you need?”

“You know my mate, Athos?”

“The guy from the support group? PTSD? He was in the paper this morning, did you see?”

“Yeah, I did.” Porthos scowled. Fucking newspapers. They'd been everywhere in the supermarket. “But he’s out of jail, cos they know he didn’t do anything. He’s gonna stay with me and Aramis for a few days while they sort things out at his house. But I gotta work, so I was wondering if you could drop in on him each day? If you have the time?”

She smiled. “Of course I can.”

“You don’t mind they thought he’d killed someone?”

She shook her head. “You said he didn’t do it, right? Police make mistakes all the time. You want me to come over and meet him today?”

“Would you? I didn’t know your mum was so bad though.”

“It’s okay. She can manage for an hour or so. Can I bring Annie? Would he mind?”

Porthos looked over at the little girl. “No, don’t think so. But listen, he’s not like me. He’s really not well. He’s not dangerous, though, except to himself. If you have any problems, you can call me or Aramis and one of us would be back home in a flash.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’ll just talk to Mum and once we finish our tea we can go over, yeah?”

“Thanks, hon.” Sylvie would be good for Athos, Porthos was sure of it. He’d met her in the park two years ago when she was pregnant and become friends. Now he was her back up baby sitter and uncle to Annie. Nearly as good as being a dad himself.

They went in his car—he kept a baby seat in it just for Annie—and were back at his flat in a couple of minutes. As soon as he saw them all, Aramis grabbed Sylvie into a hug and then kidnapped Annie from Porthos for a big cuddle. Annie had two uncles for the price of one with them.

“Is he awake?” Porthos asked.

“I think so. But he’s not come out of his room. I was just going to ask if he wanted lunch. Sylvie, do you want to stay? I have baby food for Annie, and the yoghurt she likes.”

She hugged Aramis, still holding her daughter. “I’d love to, thank you.”

“You sort that out,” Porthos said to Aramis. “I’ll go look at Athos.”

Athos was on his side. He didn't move when Porthos walked in, but his eyes were open. “Hey,” Porthos said, sitting on the bed next to him. “How do you feel?”

“About the same. I hate imposing on you like this.”

Porthos put his hand on Athos's shoulder. “You’re not. The idea of you going to back to your dad’s made me sick.”

“He just wants to make sure I’m not out there embarrassing him again.”

“Yeah, cos a son who’s a real life hero is such a shitty thing to have.”

“I’m not a hero, Porthos.”

“Pull the other one.”

“I’m not. I wish you’d stop saying it. Is there someone out there?”

“A friend who’s gonna drop in on you while I’m at work. You want to come and meet her?”

Athos burrowed under the quilt, hiding his face. “Can’t. I’ll hurt her.”

“Bollocks.”

“I’m serious. You can’t say it’s impossible because we don’t know what happened with Flea.”

“Why don’t you just come and meet her? Aramis and me are here. It’s safe enough. Come on.”

Porthos pulled the quilt away and put his hand back on Athos’s shoulder. “Please?”

“All right. But she can’t be here while you’re away.”

Porthos grinned. He’d fight that battle when he came to it.

Athos followed him out to the living room. His hair had come out of the hair band and was now across his face again. “Sylvie? This is my mate, Athos. Athos, Sylvie Donovan.”

“Hello,” Athos said, not coming any closer.

Annie, who was toddling around the room came up to him and put her hands up. Athos froze. “She wants you to lift her up,” Sylvie said. “She loves being carried.”

“I can’t. What if I hurt her?”

“Go on. She’s tougher than she looks.”

Athos bent and picked Annie up, holding her carefully. She smiled at him and went for his hair, giving it a pull. Athos didn’t complain. Porthos grinned at Sylvie. “She likes you.”

“She shouldn’t. Here, take her, please.”

Athos handed her to Porthos, who put her down. Annie immediately demanded Athos picked her up again, but Athos backed away. “Annie, come here, sweetie,” Aramis said, frowning at Porthos. “Not everyone likes to hold babies.”

That wasn’t the problem, Porthos knew, but he didn’t want to freak Athos out either. “Come and sit, Athos.”

Sylvie smiled at Athos. “You’re another one of Porthos’s strays, aren’t you? Me too.” Athos nodded but didn’t answer, hiding behind his hair again. “How would you like me to drop over and give you lunch while he’s at work?”

Athos took a step backwards. “No. You can’t. I won’t let you. Did he tell you what the police said?”

“Yes, that you didn’t do it. I’m not scared of you, Athos.”

“You should be.”

“Rubbish.”

“I’m not going to let you endanger yourself or your daughter. I’ll leave rather than do that.”

It wasn’t like Athos to be stubborn like this. Porthos looked at Aramis, but his boyfriend shook his head at him.

“Okay, we don’t want you to do something you don’t want,” Sylvie said. “But Porthos will only worry if you sit here all day. So how about this? I take Annie to the park every day for a walk. Do you like walking?”

“Yes?”

“So why don’t you meet me every day there and we’ll spend an hour or so. We could eat our lunch in the sun.”

“Like Flea.”

Sylvie looked to Porthos for an explanation. “His friend. The one who was killed.”

“Oh.” Porthos saw her mentally going ‘oh fuck’. “Well, I don’t have to be like Flea. There’s always lots of people around, other mums and stuff, so it’s safe for me and Annie. That way you get some fresh air and Porthos knows someone’s seen you while he’s not here. Would that work?”

Athos nodded slowly. “Okay. But not here. I’ll meet you there.”

“Deal. Every day at ten o’clock. Over by the west gate, with the oak tree.”

“I know it. Ten o’clock.”

Sylvie smiled. “Great! So, Aramis, where’s my lunch?”

Porthos grinned with relief. Problem solved. One of them anyway.

When Porthos took Sylvie home, she wanted to know the background on Athos. He told her about the bomb in the High Street, which had been before she’d moved to the area, but of course she’d heard about. “It’s more than that, though. There’s this shit with his family which does my head in cos they’re fucking evil. He’s evil, I mean. His dad.”

“The commissioner? But he’s a cop like Athos was.”

“Yeah, but he thinks Athos is a disappointment because he didn’t want to come up through the ranks, was happy staying as an ordinary copper. Athos married this bird who had a record, you see. Just juvenile stuff, theft and things, but Daddy thought it was oh so disgraceful for his son to marry a crim, and they had a big falling out. Then this bird went and killed Athos’s brother, and Athos had to give evidence against her. She went to prison for it.”

Sylvie put her mug of tea down on the counter in shock. “Fucking hell, Porthos. Seriously?”

“Totally. So, like, that fucked him up, then this bomb, and he just finally went to pieces. Daddy couldn’t even be arsed to pick up the phone to see how his son was doing. Athos even changed his name when he got married cos his dad threw such a shit fit over it, and he thought that might make it less embarrassing for the old bastard, but it wasn’t enough.”

“What about his mum?”

“Died. She divorced his dad years and years ago, died of cancer after his wife went to prison.”

“Wow. He’s just had it all dumped on him.”

“Yeah. So when he says ‘I’m dangerous’, he’s talking crap. He just...broke. I thought he was doing better but now he’s more like when I first met him after I left the Army. He gets flashbacks to the bomb, sometimes to finding his wife with his brother. If you ever cut yourself around him, he’ll just...he goes into this kinda zombie state. Scary as hell, not dangerous, but like he’s lost for good. Sometimes I wonder if he’ll come out of it.”

“Just blood?”

Porthos shook his head. “Lots of things, really. Anything to do with violence or blood or bombs or people hitting each other," he pointed to her sink, "or knives...see, that’s why I reckon he could never have killed that girl. He won’t touch knives, ever. He buys sandwiches but he’ll never make one. I never seen him cook.”

“Poor love,” she said. “And who hit him?”

“Dunno, but probably the same man who killed the girl. I’ll kill _him_ when I find him.”

“No,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t you go getting into trouble with the police. It’d kill him. And me.”

“Yeah, s’pose. Anyway, I better be getting home.” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I like helping people and he needs all he help he can get.”

“He really does. See you next week, hon.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

“So the thing I’m struggling with,” d’Artagnan said, “is why anyone would go to the trouble of framing _him_? He’s a nobody, lives quietly. Why take it to his house?”

“Yeah, I’m having trouble with that too,” Constance said. “If we could identify that other DNA, I’m sure it would all become clear.”

“It has to be someone who knows Athos. Or who made it their business to know about him. I think I want to talk to that neighbour of his again.”

“Why not? We’ve got no other damn leads.” It had been a week. The tabloids were howling about the lack of progress and wondering in so many words what the police were not saying. Treville was grinding his teeth at the crap being said while keeping the two of them focussed on the actual investigation. He hadn’t implied they were wasting time. Not yet.

“And we should ask his mate Porthos if anyone’s been talking to him about Athos.”

Constance shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

They decided to try the neighbour, Mrs Rogers. She was chatty enough and liked Athos. “He was here before I moved in six years ago. Nice young fellow. Always good to have a police officer in the neighbourhood, if you ask me.”

“Did you know his wife?” Constance was still trying to get around how much bad luck Athos had had in his life. Like, he must have punched Gandhi in a former existence or something.

“Oh, no, that was all before he bought the house. He couldn't live in the old one, I think. He never said, but I presume that’s why he moved. Such a shame. He was doing so well after that horrible business, and then that bomb just destroyed him. Might have been better if it had killed him and not that little baby.”

Constance tried to keep her emotions off her face, but that was a shitty thing for anyone to say. So callous. “So, apart from you, does anyone else pay much attention to him?”

Mrs Rogers bent to pat her long-haired terrier. “No, only me. Everyone else is out during the day. I didn’t see him often myself, just to nod to, you know, and Jenny here. About a month ago someone from the council came around to say that they were worried about him, and asked what I knew about him. I told him what I’ve told you. Never heard from them again. Don’t suppose they’ve got the money to check up on everyone who needs it.”

“No,” Constance said. Beside her, d’Artagnan had what she called his ‘pointer’ look on his face—like a bird dog on point. “And you told this person about Athos leaving his door open?”

“Oh yes. It’s really a bit worrying. What if someone got in and hurt him?”

“Yes, I can see it’s worrying. What did this person look like? Did they give a name?”

Mrs Rogers frowned. “I’m sure he did, my dear, but you know, I can’t remember it. Social worker, he said he was. Blond, not as tall as your friend there. His eyes were a bit....”

“Bit what?”

“Well, creepy. I’m sorry if that’s offensive, but they were. Jenny didn't like him at all. Posh voice, though.”

“Right. We’ll check up on him. Anything else you remember? Did you ever see a woman visit Athos?”

“Oh no. Only that nice black man. Every Saturday, regular as clockwork. No one else. Funny, you’d think his friends on the police force might have bothered to visit, but no one ever did.”

Back in the car, d’Artagnan frowned. “That _is_ a bit strange, don’t you think? You’d have thought someone from the station might drop around.”

“Treville said he just fell off the radar. Stopped answering the door or the phone, his mobile was disconnected. Treville feels terrible that he didn’t pursue it now.”

“He should,” d’Artagnan said. “Want me to call Porthos?”

“Yeah. I think I’ll let you deal with him while I pursue this social worker. And I want to chase up the CCTV from around the library, see if anyone of that description was hanging around the victim.”

“Right. I’ll drop you back to the station.”

In Constance’s not inconsiderable experience, social workers didn’t tend to visit neighbours but not the person they were concerned about, and Athos didn’t strike her as the kind of person the council would send someone out over. Or that anyone other than this Porthos gave much of a toss about anyway. Something really stank about this case.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos told d’Artagnan to come by the workshop at lunch time so he could talk. When the guy turned up, Porthos took him up the road a little to the green where he ate lunch on warm days. “Thanks for nothing, by the way. You didn’t call me about him at all like you said.”

“Yeah, sorry. Thing went a bit pear-shaped. How is he now?”

“Doing okay. Friend of mine is looking after him while I’m at work. What do you need to know?”

“Has anyone been asking around about him? Before all this, I mean. Maybe through your support group?”

“He doesn’t go there any more. Hasn’t for over a year, cos it’s in the hospital, innit.” D’Artagnan looked confused. Porthos explained. “He can’t cope with blood, seeing it. Last couple of times he went, he saw people coming into Emergency as he came to where we was meeting. I had to go looking for him because he blanked out.”

“Blanked out?”

“You know...flashbacks. He gets lost in his memories. That baby that died. Seeing that woman’s leg blown off. He’s okay if he has a bit of warning but if you surprise him, he gets really upset.”

“Has he had any treatment for it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he thinks he deserves to get better. He still blames himself over that wife of his.”

D’Artagnan blinked in surprise. “But she killed _his_ brother. How is that his fault?”

“Dunno. Me, I think he did the right thing, but he don’t. You’ll have to ask him but you be careful if you do. It’s one of his triggers. Anyway, back to what you was asking. I don’t know anyone who’s been sniffing around. Bet it’s tied to his dad though. Athos is no one, but his dad...I bet there are plenty of crims want to hurt him. Maybe some of your lot too.”

“Why?”

“Cos he’s been kicking arse, innit. Over corruption and stuff. Funny that he’s so hot shit about crime and corrupt cops, but he can’t stand to talk to his own son.”

“I’m glad my dad wasn’t like that. Was yours okay?”

Porthos stiffened. “None of your fucking business, mate.”

D’Artagnan held his hands up. “Sorry. Just asking. Didn’t mean anything.”

“You want to watch what you say to people. Not everyone’s had a nice cosy life like you.”

“My dad was murdered when I was nineteen, actually.” D’Artagnan’s pretty mouth went all thin in anger. “It’s why I became a police officer in the first place.”

“Fucking hell." Talking about putting his foot right in it. "Sorry. I was out of order. Did they catch the bastard?”

“Yeah. Dad was running our family shop and this guy came in to rob it. Stabbed Dad over twenty quid.” D’Artagnan rubbed his eyes.

“Sorry, mate. That’s totally shitty. I shouldn’t’ve gone off at you like that. Listen, my boyfriend’s a pathologist. Forensic, does work for the cops. If you want to ask any questions about Athos or what you’ve got, off the record, he said he’d be happy to help.”

D'Artagnan's expression brightened a little. “Oh. We can’t actually give out that sort of information...but I might have some questions. Hypothetically, of course.”

Porthos grinned. “Hypothetical, yeah, that’s what I mean. So you got no idea about who done it?”

“Not a thing.”

“It ain’t him.”

“No, I don’t think it can be." D'Artagnan touched his shoulder. "Thanks for talking to me. I’m sorry about not keeping you informed. Is he all right? Does he need anything?”

“Only for people to stop thinking he’s a killer, and to get back into his house.”

“We should be done with it soon, but maybe he’s better where he is for now anyway.”

“Yeah, I think so. But can he get his clothes and stuff?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “Can’t see why not? Let me check with my guv’nor, and I’ll call you. Or you call me, okay? Deal?”

Porthos stuck out his hand. “Deal.” D’Artagnan grinned as he shook it.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

“So his friend says Athos blacks out, or has flashbacks, when he sees blood,” d’Artagnan said as Constance was scanning the CCTV images. “How easy do you reckon it would be for someone who knew that, to trigger him into one by showing him the victim all bloodied up?”

Constance looked up at her partner. “Too bloody easy. God, that’s evil.”

“No one said murderers were nice people. Found anything?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. First up, the council doesn’t have a record of anyone being asked to visit Athos, let alone doing so. Not that this means anything with their record keeping, but they don’t have a social worker matching the description and in that area in the last month or so. Again, not conclusive, but...look at this.” She froze the film and d’Artagnan came around to look. “Blond man talking to our vic after work week before last. And I’ve seen him with her at least twice before that.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“No. But I’d like a sketch artist to visit Mrs Rogers and see if her description matches. If we could just identify that DNA sample.”

“It’s not necessarily the killer’s.”

“In her _wounds_ , Charlie?”

“Yeah, forgot about that.”

“We should take the sketch to the library too, see if any of her co-workers remember.”

“I’ll organise it then, shall I?”

“Yes please. I’ll keep on with this.”

“And are you up for a drink later?” he asked casually.

“Only if I can eat.”

“Dinner’s on me then.”

She smiled. “It’s a date. Go.”

D’Artagnan was so sweet, she thought. Pity all men weren’t like that.

Two hours later, she went to Treville. “You want the good news on the Owen case or the bad news?”

“It’s Friday. Bad news first.”

“I haven’t got a damn thing to put up as a motive.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “The good news?”

“I’ve identified the man seen talking to the victim on three occasions including the night she died. Michael Rochefort.”

Treville exhaled. “The business man stroke ‘business’ man.”

“That’s the one. Look.” She showed him the pictures. “And there’s his car. Black Porsche.”

“So he knew the victim. How do you tie him to Athos?”

“I don’t. That’s the bad news. But he fits the general description given by Athos’s neighbour.”

“Blond, medium height, creepy eyes? Constance, we have officers here who fit that description.”

“I know! But it’s the first breakthrough in this bloody case, guv. I just wanted a bit of positive reinforcement.”

He smiled. “Okay. D’Artagnan?”

“Organising a sketch artist. By the way, he says Athos is doing okay at his mate’s in case you were worried.”

He smiled. “I was, thank you. I should really call on him.”

“Maybe, yes. And the other thing he found out is that Athos goes into a sort of a fugue state when he sees blood. Because of the bomb.”

He sat back in his chair, his eyes not seeing her. “God. Yes, of course.”

“And with everything people have told me about his aversion to violence or anything of that kind, it’s possible someone exploited his PTSD to set him up.”

“Okay, pursue that. Ask one of our forensic psychiatrists if you have to. We need this one solved, Constance. Not just for the damn commissioner, but for Athos’s sake.”

“Yes, sir. Working as hard as I can, sir.”

He grimaced. “Yes, sorry. I know you both are. Rochefort, eh? Now he’s a bastard we need to be careful of. Don’t approach him without talking to me first. I might want to talk to him myself. He has friends in high places.”

“And low ones. Don’t worry, I won’t go near him. Don’t forget, I’m off this weekend. We should be able to put the sketch up to friends and contacts of Miss Owen next week, and see what shakes out.”

“Enjoy your days off, Constance. And good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

D’Artagnan called Porthos on his way home from work. “What’s up, Charles?”

“My guv’nor gave me permission to let Athos collect his gear from the house, so long as a police officer went with him, so I wondered when he’d like to do that. I’m busy tonight, but over the weekend? I’m not working, so any time is good.”

“Appreciate that, mate, thanks. Tomorrow morning? You want me to pick you up?”

“How about I pick you up with him? I’ve got your address. Or do you want to do it without him?”

“I’ll see how he feels. Maybe I’ll bring Aramis. That’s my boyfriend.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow.”

That was some good news to give Athos at least. That and the fact he and Sylvie were getting on like a house on fire, should make him a bit happier. Aramis said he’d even seen him smile for about five seconds yesterday.

Athos was actually in the living room when Porthos got home, instead of hiding in his room. “All right?” Porthos asked, dumping his backpack.

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Got some good news. We can go pick up some of your gear tomorrow from your house if you want. Or I can pick it up if you don’t want to go.”

“Oh. I’ve arranged to meet Sylvie and Annie in the park again.”

Porthos grinned. “Fine by me. You tell me what you want and I’ll get it.”

“Are you allowed to go there? It’s a crime scene.”

“All kosher. D’Artagnan’s taking us, all official and everything.”

Athos nodded. “I like him. He’s a good officer.”

“Yeah, seems like a nice guy. So what do you want me to collect?”

“Just clothes, and books, if you can manage them. You can choose. I can’t go back to the library any more.”

“Why not? You didn’t do anything.”

“They don’t know that. I don’t know that. Do you know when Flea's funeral is?”

Porthos had been filling the kettle for a cup of tea, but he turned the tap off. “No. You’re not planning to go, are you?”

“I don’t know. She was very kind to me, but I might have killed her.”

Porthos put the kettle down a little harder than he meant to. “Listen, mate, you didn’t kill no one. You think I’d let you hang around with Sylvie and Annie if you did? You’re not capable of it.”

“Anyone’s capable of it, if they have enough reason.”

“Yeah? So why did you do it? Give you an overdue fine or something? Fill out the crossword on you?”

Athos’s head fell forward, his hair covering his face again. “I don’t know. But she’s dead and I was there.”

“Don’t mean a thing.” Athos didn’t reply. Porthos came over to sit by him and put his hand on his shoulder. “You want me to find out about the funeral?”

Athos shook his head. “It would be wrong for me to go.”

Porthos didn’t know what the polite thing was in this situation and on the whole, Athos would probably be happier not going. Porthos needed to talk to Aramis. “Want some tea?”

“No. Thank you. Did d’Artagnan say when I could go home?”

“No. But you like it here, right? Seeing Sylvie and being with us?”

“It’s not my life. It’s yours. I’m just intruding. At some point I have to go home and...be on my own again.”

“Athos, I promise you. Even if you move back, no way am I letting you be alone again. It’s bad for you, I see that now.”

“It’s all I deserve.”

“Yeah, bullshit. What have you done that’s so fucking evil then?”

Athos's fingers twisted and untwisted together in his distress. “I sent my wife to prison. I didn’t...do what she asked. She asked me to cover up what she’d done. I could have done it, Porthos.”

“You mean, the wife who killed your brother?”

“In self-defence. He tried to rape her, she said.”

“Yeah? And she told the jury and she got a reduced sentence, didn’t she? What was you supposed to do? Lie for her?”

“What if she told the truth, Porthos? What if I sent a woman to prison for being a victim of assault?”

Porthos sighed. “All you did was give evidence of what you’d seen and heard, right?”

Athos lifted his head. “Do you know how hard it is for a woman to secure a conviction against her rapist? Ask Sylvie.”

“Yeah, she told me. But even if your wife went to prison when she didn’t do nothing wrong, how does you being sick help her?”

“Payback.”

“Bollocks.”

“She didn’t make me ill, Porthos.”

Porthos covered Athos's hands, still twisting in agitation on his lap. “And you didn’t put her in prison. The judge and jury did that. If you’d helped her escape, you would have been in prison instead.”

“I loved her. I should have done that for her.”

“If she really loved you, she would never have asked you to do that for her.”

“She was frightened. Prison is a dreadful place.”

“You getting worked up about this isn’t doing you any good. And you shouldn’t be fretting about the funeral either.” Porthos wrapped Athos in a hug. It was the only thing that ever seemed to help him. “You’re a good man, and d’Artagnan is gonna prove you didn’t kill anyone. You wait and see.”

Later that night, tucked against Aramis’s body, Porthos told him what Athos had said. “I don’t know how to help him. It’s killing me.”

“You are helping him, love. But he needs therapy. Can he afford a private psychotherapist?”

“I doubt it. His dad could.”

“Then maybe Daddy will step up once Athos’s name is cleared. He’s very sick, Porthos. You can’t cure him with love and affection.”

“I don’t think he’ll go to a psychotherapist.”

“Maybe. Just be his friend. I’ll do some investigating. I have some contacts in the army who might be able to put me onto someone who specialises in PTSD.” Aramis kissed him. “The longer you can keep him away from that house, the better.”

“‘S what I thought. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. He’s no trouble, and Sylvie likes him a lot. Maybe a little more than like.”

“Oh man, he is so not ready for that.”

“I know. Baby steps. Do you mind if I go with you tomorrow? I’d like to meet this d’Artagnan of yours.”

“I was hoping you might say that.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

D’Artagnan was on time. Athos had already gone out to meet Sylvie. Aramis looked at d’Artagnan’s red Renault hot hatch and grinned at Porthos, who had heard his boyfriend’s views on overcompensating men before. But all he said was, “Nice to meet you.”

“And you. Thanks for letting Athos stay. The more I hear about how the force have treated him, the angrier I get.”

“You can’t have been around when that was happening,” Aramis said.

“No, but we’re all brothers. He got sick because he went above and beyond for the community, and we should have helped him.”

“You’re helping him now, that’s all that matters.”

Athos’s house had a dank, dead smell that made Porthos want to heave, knowing what might have caused it. “Jesus, they couldn’t have left a window open or something?”

“Contamination risk,” Aramis said. “Where’s his bedroom?”

Porthos selected several sets of clothes, pyjamas and a bathrobe, and collected toiletries. “He said he'd like some books, but he’s got hundreds of them in the other room. I haven’t got a clue which ones I should take.”

“Let me,” Aramis said. “Let’s pick ones that won’t trigger him unduly.”

D’Artagnan watched them go through Athos’s stuff. “How does he live like this? It’s so shabby and lonely.”

“He doesn’t,” Aramis said. “He’s in a holding pattern. Stuck in a rut. I hate to say it, but this all might be the best thing that’s happened to the man, God rest that poor girl’s soul.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Porthos muttered.

“Of course not. But since he was never going to ask for help, forcing him to have it might be what he needed. D’Artagnan, Porthos said you might have some questions for me...hypothetically.”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “I’m not supposed to talk about this at all with anyone outside the case.”

“Of course not. That would be illegal. However, if we were talking hypothetically, what did you need to know?”

“Okay. He takes valium and other stuff for anxiety, right? But the concentration in his blood looked awfully high for him just having taken a couple of tablets before he went to sleep.”

“Hypothetically, how high might that have been?” D’Artagnan murmured a figure. “Yes, that’s pretty high. So either he took more than he said, or someone injected him with it. It takes time to clear his system, but since he was unconscious when found, I’d be looking...hypothetically...at a time interval of about eight hours before he was found.”

“Right. And a bottle of wine wouldn’t make him black out?”

“Unlikely even in a teetotal adult man, and since he’s a habitual drinker, even less likely. What was his blood alcohol level when tested?”

“Zero, more or less.”

“Consistent with him drinking no more than he said, or more than he said, earlier than he said.”

“Thanks. Now I know what to ask officially. And valium and booze wouldn't make someone violent, would they?”

“Extremely unlikely.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “Right. I mean, I didn’t think so, but I just wanted to be sure. The last thing I want to do is help clear him and find I’d fucked up.”

“He didn’t kill no one,” Porthos said.

“Love, d’Artagnan needs to deal in facts.”

“Well, here’s a fucking fact. Athos couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Aramis and d’Artagnan looked at each other. “What?”

D'Artagnan answered. “It’s just...he was a cop. We’re trained to defend ourselves. Not to kill, but he’ll have some skills.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.” Porthos stomped downstairs. Fucking cops.

“Porthos!”

D’Artagnan came running down the stairs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean he’d done it. Only, it’s possible. Not very possible.”

“No, it ain’t. You keep away from me and him with that attitude, mate. He’s a victim here.”

“Yes, he is. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was out of order.”

Porthos grunted. “All right. You having any luck finding the real killer?”

“Not much. I can’t say anything about it if I was though.”

“Thought as much. I think we’re done here.”

“Okay. Let me lock up.”

Outside, Aramis stroked his chin. “You know, d’Artagnan, if the force, his friends, want to help, Athos needs a psychotherapist and we don’t know if he can afford it. I’m going to ask around myself, but if you have any contacts with doctors who specialise in that, or people who want to donate, that’s somewhere to start.”

“That’s a great idea. I’ll ask Treville. My guv’nor.” D’Artagnan’s sudden smile, as always, was such a contrast to his worried face. “I really want to help him.”

“This does,” Porthos said, holding up the bag with the clothes and books.

“We’ll do more, I promise.”

“Then I believe you.” Porthos put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Helping a brother in arms. 'S what soldiers do. Cops should too.”

“Yeah, they should. Let’s take his things home and hope it helps him a bit more.”


	3. Chapter 3

Constance was in early, as was her partner. Friday night had turned out to be the best part of her weekend. The rest of it was just boring housework and grocery shopping. Her partner had been busy on his days off, she found, when she checked her email. “You had the sketch artist out over the weekend?”

“He said she was free and Mrs Rogers was available. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course. That’s Rochefort, I’m certain of it. Treville wants to be the one who questions him, he said.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a very bad man and you need to keep away from him,” Constance said. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah, mostly." He grinned at her. 'I enjoyed Friday night.”

“So did I.” A bit too much, she thought.

“I helped Athos’s mate and his boyfriend pick up some clothes for him at the house on Saturday.”

“That was kind. You didn’t have to spend your day off doing that.”

“Only the morning. Um.” D’Artagnan leaned closer. “Don’t get mad at me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What have you done?”

“Can we talk about it outside?”

“Let me send the sketch to Treville first. Charlie, this better not endanger the investigation.”

“No no. I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Meet me outside for a fag in ten minutes.” Neither of them smoked, but they used the excuse for a private word over a takeaway coffee.

Ten minutes later, d’Artagnan was outside waiting, moving from foot to foot. “What have you done, Charlie?”

“Nothing, really. Porthos’s boyfriend is a forensic pathologist and I just asked him some general questions about things like valium levels in the blood.”

“You didn’t show him the blood test results, did you?”

“No! But I asked him, as a theoretical situation, if Athos’s level was consistent with the level of medication he said he’d taken. Aramis, that’s the pathologist, said no.”

“You could have just asked one of our people.”

“I know, but he was there and very nice, and I wanted to find out as fast as possible.”

Constance bopped him on the nose. “Don’t do it again. But no harm done, I hope. So what are they consistent with?”

“He thought it was possible Athos had been injected with diazepam that evening. I’ve looked over the photos but I can’t see any injection site. Do you think maybe the bruising was designed to cover it up?”

“It’s possible. It’s all a bit over the top.”

“I know. But if he was injected with something to make him sleep or pass out—maybe while he was already passed out or in a flashback, then that might explain why he was able to be set up like that without a struggle.”

“Yes, but there are other explanations.”

“Like?”

She flapped her hands in frustration. “I don’t know. He was knocked out?”

“No concussion, remember?”

“Or he drank until he blacked out. No, hang on, the blood alcohol level...damn it, you might be right.”

He grinned. “Worth checking out officially?”

“Okay, yes. We’ll ask all the right people all the right questions. But don’t go asking this guy anything else. It’s too risky, Charlie. We could lose our jobs if we break the rules even a little on this.”

“I know. So what’s the next step?”

“You go to the library and ask about anyone hanging around or pestering the victim. And I’ll get Treville to interview this Rochefort character.”

Treville came in not long after, and agreed the sketch and the man in the CCTV images were one and the same. “As one of the last people to see the victim alive, we have enough reason to talk to him. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I can’t believe he’s never been arrested, given what we’re sure he’s up to,” Constance said.

“Never?” Treville frowned. “I could have sworn he had, at least twice. In fact I seem to remember it might have been Athos who’d done so at least once.”

“Not according to our records....” Constance covered her mouth in horror. “Oh God.”

He looked at her steadily. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. I might be wrong. If you want to ask Athos, he might remember. Or not, poor man.” He glanced at the clock. “May as well catch Mr Rochefort at home.”

On the way over there, Constance mentioned that d’Artagnan thought the diazepam levels in Athos’s blood might be a bit high—without giving away why he’d thought that—and Treville agreed they should check it out. She texted her partner to do so, this time officially.

Rochefort lived in a brand new house in the leafy part of the borough, all fake Greek columns and gravel driveways. “Business must be good,” Treville said as they pulled up.

“Parts of it anyway,” Constance agreed.

Rochefort’s housekeeper opened the door to them, and after going to speak to her boss, showed them into the conservatory, where Rochefort was at breakfast. Constance immediately noted that Mrs Rogers had been right—he did have creepy eyes, pale, blue and lacking in any warmth.

“Inspector, what can I do for you this morning.” He didn’t ask them to sit.

“We’re investigated a murder of a young woman that occurred two weeks ago, Mr Rochefort, and in checking CCTV images, we saw someone talking to her outside her workplace on the night she died. The person appears to be you.”

“Could be,” Rochefort said, buttering a piece of toast, not looking at them. “I meet a lot of people in my line of work.”

 _I bet you do_ , Constance thought. He did have a posh voice, though not as posh as Athos.

“This was near the library branch on the High street. Friday night, about six pm. The seventeenth.”

“The library? Oh yes, I might have been there to return some books.”

Treville opened the manila folder and showed Rochefort the photos. “Is that you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And the woman you were speaking to?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Someone I passed in the street? Is she the one who was murdered?” His lack of emotion was chilling.

“Yes. Do you happen to remember where you were the rest of the evening?”

“Yes. Easily. It was my birthday, so I spent it at my girlfriend’s house. She can verify that.”

“All night, sir?”

Rochefort gave them the full force of his ice-blue stare. “This is beginning to sound a little like I’m being accused of something, inspector.”

“No, sir. Just following up all the leads. Were you there all night?”

“Yes. She’s my girlfriend and it was my birthday. What do you think I did?”

“Right. And you hadn’t met this young lady before?” Treville tapped the photos.

“No. And at this point, I’m going to ask you to leave and suggest if you want to talk to me any further, I will do only with my solicitor present.”

“Of course. Can I ask your girlfriend’s name?”

“Anna Chapelle. Now, please go before I have to make a formal complaint.”

“Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

“Arrogant sod,” Constance muttered as they walked back to the car. “He didn’t give a toss about the victim either.”

“Not a crime as such, but I don’t think he was truthful. Let’s talk to Anna Chapelle.”

Chapelle was in the phone book at an address in Ealing. Unlike her boyfriend, she wasn’t out of bed yet, but like him, she lived very nicely, in a little townhouse. She was an attractive brunette, older than Constance expected—closer to forty than the twenty or so she’d expected—with big green eyes and a clever way of doing the best with what nature had given her.

She greeted them in a silk dressing gown and in full makeup. “Was it really necessary to call here before normal business hours, officers?” She didn’t invite them in.

Treville took charge again. “Sorry to disturb you, Ms Chapelle, but we were speaking to Michael Rochefort with regards to an investigation we are carrying out, and he gave us your name.”

“Kind of him,” she drawled.

“Can you tell me what you were doing on the evening of Friday the seventeenth? That’s two weeks ago.”

“Oh, his birthday. We went to dinner and he spent the night here.”

“All night?”

She gave them a slow smile. “Of course. It was his birthday. Had to be special, didn’t it?”

“And he didn’t leave at any time? What time did you arrive here?”

“About eleven, and no, he didn’t. Do I need my solicitor to be here?”

“Up to you, but that’s all we have to ask you for now.”

“Thank you. Now I need a shower. Goodbye.” She closed the door.

“I think she was telling the truth,” Constance said. “Bugger.”

“Don’t give up so fast. You know, I swear I’ve seen her before somewhere.” Treville tapped his chin. “No, not coming to me. I’m getting old.”

“You and me both, guv.”

“There’s a bit of a difference between thirty and fifty, Constance.”

“It’s the job. Puts on a year a day.”

“That it does. Right. I want to do some more checking on Rochefort and this Anna Chapelle.”

“And I’m going to ring the library and see if Rochefort even had a library card, because he doesn’t strike me as a big reader or someone who has to return his own books.”

Constance didn’t have the chance to make that call because Treville barked her name and she rushed into his office. “Close the door.”

She did, then sat down. “Something wrong?”

“Something big. Anna Chapelle was born Anne Dubreuil. Later Anne d’Athos. She’s Athos’s ex-wife. The one who went to jail for killing his brother.”

“Oh my god. So she must be in on this.”

Treville held up a hand. “Not so fast. First of all, I want you to speak to Athos and ask him if he remembers arresting Rochefort at all, or having any connection with him. Make sure his lawyer is there—I don’t want any complaints. Second, find out if there’s any CCTV around her house and any sign of him having left. Every bit of his alibi, check it out, including the library.”

“He could be telling the truth and still be behind it. Or she could.”

“Of course. Guv, we need to get his DNA somehow.”

“In time, in time. I’m going to check out any connections between Rochefort and Athos, or his father. That’s another thing. For now, don’t mention that we’re investigating him or the woman to _anyone_. Tell d’Artagnan to keep quiet too. Don’t talk to any other officer about the case, and especially not that.”

“Guv?”

“It’s a precaution, that’s all. Call it my copper’s intuition.”

Treville had been a cop for nearly thirty years. Constance trusted his gut more than her own. “Yes, sir.”

“Then go. Speak to d’Artagnan first.”

D’Artagnan was at his desk when she returned. “Oh, Constance. I’ve got confirmation of what we were talking about before.”

“Good. I need another fag.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

“Now.”

“What’s going on?” he asked as she found them a private spot outside to talk.

“Have you told anyone we’re interested in Rochefort?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Good. Don’t. Not anyone, not even another officer. Straight from Treville.”

“Okay. What’s going on?”

“Can’t tell you everything, but one thing you do need to know—Rochefort’s girlfriend, or mistress, is Athos’s ex-wife.”

D'Artagnan whistled quietly in surprised. “So she set him up?”

“We don’t know anyone set anybody up, but Rochefort is a powerful man with connections. So, keep it quiet. Do not tell Porthos or Athos either.”

“No. God, this will kill him if Rochefort is behind it.”

“Yeah, exactly. So, keep your mouth shut. What did the lab say?”

“Everything Aramis said was correct. And I was just looking at the photos of Athos that morning when you came in. There’s a mark on his neck which _could_ be an injection site, but it’s not clear and now we probably can’t tell.”

“Damn. Okay. Good work.” He smiled at her. “Now I need you to go down to the library and ask them if Michael Rochefort has a card there, and a list of all his transactions there in the last month.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to Athos again. See you later.”

“Okay.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Be careful, Constance.”

“Always, Charlie.”

Ninon Larroque was hostile, as Constance expected. “I’m going to instruct him not to talk to you.”

“Miss Larroque, this is a courtesy only. We can talk to him without you, but he’s vulnerable so we thought he should have someone with him. If you’re busy, we can ask his friend to be there.”

“No, it should be me. You’re not playing games here, I hope.”

“I’m really not. He’s not under arrest, and not really even a suspect any more. We’re only trying to make sure the right person is charged.”

“All right. I can’t call him since he won’t answer the phone at the place where he’s staying, so I’ll pick you up and we can go over together. Is now convenient?”

“Of course.” Constance was surprised she had so little to do, but wasn’t going to object.

“Ten minutes, in the car park.”

Of course the solicitor had a rather lovely Lexus. “Nice,” Constance said, patting the dashboard.

“I spend a lot of time driving. It’s my second office, so I want it to be as comfortable as I could afford.”

“So would I, but I can’t afford this.”

Ninon only smiled.

Athos only opened the door when Ninon told him who she was. “Hello, Ninon. Sergeant Bonacieux, nice to see you again.”

“Call me Constance, Athos. And it’s lovely to see you looking so much better.”

“Thank you. I was just on my way out, actually.”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

He ducked his head. “I can’t stay. Annie will be disappointed.”

“Annie?”

“Sylvie’s little girl. We meet and go for a walk in the park every day.” He hesitated. “You could come along.”

“Why not?” Ninon said, looking to Constance for confirmation. “I’ll give you a lift over.”

“It’s not far, but okay.”

Constance was sorry to see how Athos’s expression had drooped on seeing the two of them, but when they arrived at the park, he brightened. “There they are.” He jumped out of the car, and a toddler walked over to him as fast as her stubby little legs would carry her. He swept her up into his arms and she laughed.

Constance and Ninon caught up with them. “This is my friend, Annie. And her mum is Sylvie. Sylvie, this is Ninon and Constance. Ninon is my solicitor and Constance is investigating my friend’s death.”

Sylvie, a striking black woman with long curly hair, stared at Constance suspiciously. “Are you here to take him in again?”

“Not at all. I just have a couple of questions about when Athos worked on the force. Ninon is here to support him.”

“It’s all right, Sylvie,” Athos said, still holding Annie.

“How old is she?” Constance asked, taking the child’s hand.

“Eighteen months.” Sylvie took her child from Athos, giving Constance another sharp look. “Athos, we can wait for you at the playground if you want to talk.”

“Okay, I won’t be long. I won’t be long, will I?”

“I hope not,” Constance said with a smile. “We’re not here to upset him.”

“You better not,” Sylvie said. She put Annie on the ground and led her away, but still kept an eye on Athos for another minute or so.

“There’s a bench here,” Athos said. They sat down. “So what do you need to know, Constance?”

“Do you remember ever arresting a Michael Rochefort?” She showed him a photo she’d taken from the man’s company site.

“Oh yes. Nasty piece of work. He beat up his girlfriend at the time. I arrested him for assault.”

“And this would have been...?”

“Five years ago. December. They had quarrelled over their plans for Xmas. Detective Marcheaux interviewed him.”

“Marcheaux...don’t know him.”

“Before your time. He transferred to Manchester, I think. Inspector Treville would know.”

“Right. Did you take a DNA sample from him?”

Athos frowned. “Yes, I believe so. Isn’t there a record of all this?”

“Um, we’re just checking that all out. Did you have any contact with him after that? Was he charged?”

“No, sadly. The girlfriend withdrew the complaint. Happens a lot as you probably know.”

“Yes, I do. And did you see him again? Rochefort?”

“A couple of times on patrol. He was always incredibly rude to me. I thought it was childish of him, but someone who beats up women isn’t someone whose opinion bothers me.”

Constance grinned. She hadn’t seen this side of Athos, the calm confident cop. “Quite. So, I think that’s all we need from you. How are you doing?”

“Much better, thank you. But I wish I could go home.”

Ninon looked at Constance. “Why is his house still locked up?”

“Crime scene.”

“Nonsense. You’ve had weeks to go over it. Athos, I’ll make sure you can go back by the end of next week.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I don’t want to interfere with the investigation though.”

“You won’t be,” Ninon said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Nothing, thank you. Porthos and Aramis have been incredibly kind and patient with me. I wish I deserved it.”

“You do,” Constance said, more vehemently than she’d intended to sound. Athos looked at her surprised at her tone. “You do. You’re a good man, and you were a good police officer. You didn’t deserve to have any of this happen to you.”

He smiled, and it transformed his face. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you. So...can I go now?”

“Of course. I’ll talk to Ninon about your house, I promise.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Ninon. You didn’t need to supervise her. I’m sure Constance would never abuse her authority.”

“It’s no trouble, Athos. I wanted to see you again myself, find out how you were getting on.”

“I’m fine. I...uh...should go meet Sylvie.”

“Have fun,” Constance said.

Ninon waited until Athos had walked away. “What’s going on? Rochefort is an arsehole. A dangerous arsehole.”

“Yes, he is. I can’t tell you what’s happening, you know that. But don’t tell anyone I was asking...hell, I should have told him.”

Ninon stopped her as she was about go after him. “Let me. Constance, if I can help...unofficially or officially...let me know. Athos’s mother was a good friend of my own. I’ve known him a long time.”

“I will. Please tell him not to mention Rochefort to his friends, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_.”

D’Artagnan called her while she caught a taxi back to the station. “Rochefort has never used that library or borrowed a book there.”

“Family? Kids?”

“No one.”

“Okay, good. I’m on my way back now.”

She rang Treville and told him what Athos had told her. “I’ll pull the duty logs and see when Marcheaux was on duty and what calls came in that month. Definitely December?”

“He was certain of it. And Rochefort has never used that library. He lied.”

“What a surprise. No luck with the CCTV though.”

“Do you think talking to her again might work?”

Treville went silent while he thought. “Yes. Bring her in. Arrest her if you have to. She’s got form, and we have plenty of reason to question her officially.”

Constance took d’Artagnan with her. “Let me do the talking,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she’ll have you for lunch, Charlie. She’s a high class escort with a string of powerful boyfriends and patrons under her belt—”

“So to speak.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. She won’t be able to use her feminine wiles on me.”

“Hey, do you think you can give me a demonstration of them sometime? I’d like to see some wiles.”

“I’m going to give you such a smack.”

“Yes, please.”

“Charlie.”

“Sorry.”

This time Anna Chapelle was dressed in a tight fitting, low cut green dress that made d’Artagnan’s eyes go wide. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, making to slam the door in their faces.

“It’s either here or at the station under arrest, Miss Chapelle.”

She glowered at Constance. “Arrested for what?”

“Suspicion of being accessory to murder.”

“Murder? You said nothing about a murder earlier on.” She held the door open. “You better come inside. Wipe your feet.”

She showed them into an elegant living room, which, unlike her lover’s, showed some actual taste. “I’m warning you that I have my solicitor on speed dial, so behave, officers. What murder?”

“On the night of Michael Rochefort’s birthday party, he was seen talking to a young woman later found dead. He is one of the last people we know saw her alive. Possibly the last person.” Chapelle listened but said nothing. “Her body was found at a house owned by your ex-husband, Olivier d’Athos.”

Her lips thinned. “He’s not my ex. We’re still married. But I haven’t seen him since the day he gave evidence at my trial, which I’m sure you know all about. I told you that Rochefort was at my house that night and it’s true.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“He was in my bed, officer. Perhaps your lovers make a habit of running out on you, but mine don’t.” She raised a shapely eyebrow at d’Artagnan, and something in her gaze made him flush and look away.

“Has Rochefort ever mentioned Athos to you? That Athos once arrested him, anything like that?”

“Athos arrested a lot of people. No, he has never said anything. I wasn’t aware they had ever met.”

“Do you still bear a grudge against Athos?”

Chapelle sneered. “Oh no. Not at all. I mean, he only gave evidence against me in my trial for defending myself against his bottom-feeding leech of a rapist brother. Why would I resent that, officer?”

“So you do resent him.”

“Not enough to frame him for murder, if this is where you’re going. And not enough to lie for Rochefort either. I’ve been in prison once. I’m not ever going back, for him or anyone else.”

“Tell me again about that night. What time did you get home?”

“About eleven. We had a booking at Carriages restaurant for seven thirty and left from there to come straight here. We had sex and fell asleep. I made him breakfast the next morning about ten.”

“He drove back?”

“Yes. If you want to do him for drink-driving, it’s a little late for that.”

“Breakfast at ten is a little late in the day, isn’t it?”

“Not if you don’t have to get up. I didn’t wake up until nine.”

“You were up early this morning. We didn’t wake you.”

“Not by much. I was tired that night. We’d had a lot to drink and I slept late. So what?”

“And you’re _sure_ he didn’t get up at any time?”

Constance could have sworn the woman was genuinely confused by the question. “He might have got up to use the loo. I don’t remember. But he was there when I went to asleep, there when I woke up. That’s all I can tell you.”

“One more thing. Did you eat or drink anything when you came home from the restaurant? Or take any medication?”

“Is that a crime now, officer?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

She waved her hands. “I don’t remember. Probably. We often have a drink after sex. He likes a cigarette and Scotch, and I usually have a Scotch with him. I suppose we probably did that night. Yes, we did. I remember now. It was a new bottle he’d bought a couple of days earlier, and he mentioned that when he opened it.”

“He poured?”

“Yes? Where’s this going?”

“Thank you for being so helpful, Miss Chapelle. I’m sure Athos will be grateful.”

Her expression filled with anger. “If you think I would spit on Athos if he was on fire, you’re delusional. I hope he’s guilty. I hope he rots in prison as he wanted me to do. Now get out. Next time, bring a fucking warrant.”

“Good day, Miss Chapelle.”

D’Artagnan waited until Constance had done up her seatbelt and he’d started the engine. “Wow.”

“Indeed.”

“Were you going where I think you were going with that line of questioning?”

“Very likely, Charlie. I think Mr Rochefort needs to be questioned again.”

Treville agreed and Rochefort was brought to the station that afternoon. Interviewing him was a waste of time because, unlike Athos, he obeyed his high-priced solicitor and refused to comment on anything whatsoever. But they did get a DNA sample.

Which didn’t match the DNA found on the murder victim.

“Damn it,” Constance said when she read the report. “Now what?”

“We keep looking,” Treville said. “The duty logs show that Detective Marcheaux was on duty in December of that year Athos mentioned, and that Athos attended the Rochefort residence. But no record of the arrest or interview.”

“Someone’s been fiddling with the records.”

“So it seems. We’re far from done on this. By the way, Athos’s solicitor called and asked if he could go back to his house. I’ve cleared it and let her know.”

“Thanks, guv. I meant to ask, but I forgot.”

“It’s fine.”

“I wish he wouldn’t though. He looked so much better today. He’s made another friend.”

Treville smiled briefly. “Time was when he had a lot of friends. He wasn’t popular but liked well enough. He was such a honest cop that of course he upset one or two people, but on the whole, he was considered to be a good man.”

“He is. Maybe his mate will convince him to stay with them a bit longer.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos was trying to do just that, in fact, and having no luck at all. “Mate, there’s no hurry. We like having you here, don’t we, Aramis?”

“Yes, we do, Athos. Why not wait until this case is solved?”

“It might never be solved. I want to go home. Why don’t you let me?”

“Just tell me why you want to go _now_?”

Athos let his hair fall over his face. “Sylvie.”

“Sylvie?” Porthos asked.

“She’s...getting too close to me. Liking me too much. I don’t want her hurt. If I go home, I have a perfect excuse not to see her so much.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“No, no. You’ll offend her. Please, Porthos? I’m so grateful for your help but I really want to leave.”

Porthos threw his hands up in the air. “Well if you do, it’s your life. When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow night? If it’s convenient?”

“Okay. But will you do one favour for me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m gonna give you a mobile phone and put my number, Aramis’s number, and maybe d’Artagnan and his partner’s number in it. And if it rings, you have to answer, okay? Only that number. I ain’t gonna tell anyone else what it is, but I need to know you’re okay and that you’ll talk to me if I call.”

“All right. But I’ll be fine. I’m much better, you said it yourself.”

Porthos looked at Aramis who just shook his head. “Yeah, I did. But you’re gonna visit, right? Or let me come around again?”

“Of course. I’m going back to my house, not to the moon.”

“Good. Let’s eat, I’m starving.” And maybe he’d be okay this time. He _was_ much better, and happier. Porthos would have a word with Sylvie. He was sure he could sort this out between the two of them. She really liked Athos, and he really liked her. It was rubbish to think he could do her any harm.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Normally Constance was good at shutting out work stuff when she got home. She’d put music on, cook, and watch TV or read. It was her alone time and she loved it. Not that she wouldn’t have liked to have someone with her, but given a choice between being alone and another bloke like her abusive ex-husband, she’d take being alone any time.

But tonight, she kept thinking about Rochefort. She’d been so _sure_ the DNA would match. Of course he probably hired someone to do his dirty work but how were they ever going to make a connection?

After going around and around on it for over an hour, she did what she rarely did and opened a bottle of wine. But she’d no more than poured a glass, not even sipping it, when her mobile went. She didn’t recognise the number. “Hello?”

“Is this...Detective Bonacieux?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Anna Chapelle.”

Constance’s hand went to her throat in shock. “What can I do for you, Miss Chapelle?”

“I...I need help. I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“Where are you?”

“In my car. Please.”

Constance bit her lip. “Stay there, tell me where you are. I’ll come meet you. Are you hurt?”

“Ye-es. But...I don’t want you to bring the police or paramedics. Please. I’m scared.”

Could Constance trust her? Chapelle gave her the address, and Constance said she would be there soon. Then Constance called d’Artagnan. “Hey, it’s you. It’s late. What’s up?”

She told him. “I should come with you,” he said.

“No, let me go on my own. But if I don’t call you in an hour, raise the alarm, okay?”

“Constance, it’s not safe. You know who she’s associated with.”

“I know. But she’ll run if I bring you. Trust me, Charlie.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I will.”

With her heart in her throat, she went to her car and started it up. It took her fifteen minutes to get to the spot by the river where Chapelle asked to meet. Constance pulled up next to the only car there, got out, and went to the other vehicle. Chapelle opened the door.

Constance gasped at the woman’s appearance, and crouched down. “Oh my God. Who did this?”

“Rochefort.” Chapelle’s face was a bloodied mess, and one of her fingers looked broken.

“We should take you to hospital—”

“No. He said he’d kill me if I called the police. Said he’d split me from throat to cunt. I believe him.”

“Shit. Hang on, I’ve got a first aid kit in my car. Let me clean you up.”

As Constance wiped the blood off the other woman’s face, Chapelle told her what had happened. “I went to him and confronted him about that night. I started thinking that maybe he _had_ given me something in that drink we had. I don’t usually sleep that hard or long, even with alcohol. I said I didn't want to end up in prison again because of him. He went completely insane, and did this.”

“Did he mention Athos?”

“No. It might not be personal. Rochefort works for Armand Plessis. Plessis uses him sometimes to do his dirty work, set people up, that kind of thing. “

“Are you willing to make a statement.?”

“He’ll kill me before I have a chance to do that. Please. I’m sure he’ll do it this time.” She shivered. “He’s done it before, I’m sure he has.”

“We can protect you. The police, I mean.”

Chapelle grabbed Constance’s wrist. “You’re an idiot. Rochefort is paying off the police.”

“Then why trust me?”

“I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”

“My guv’nor...already suspects someone is altering our records, erasing arrests and interview notes. We’re looking into this.”

“For Athos.” She spat out the name.

“Yes, at first. But dirty cops are another issue to deal with. You can trust me and you can trust Treville.”

“I don’t like cops. Athos may have something to do with that.”

Constance kept on gently cleaning her cuts and abrasions. “Did he lie on the stand about you?”

“No. But he refused to believe me about his brother.”

“It’s all too common, I’m afraid. I know how hard it was to get people to believe my husband was hitting me. He was a cop too. Even though I’m one, no one wanted to know. He’s walking around free and I had to transfer to London.”

Their eyes met and for the first time, she saw a little sympathy there. “So you know why.”

“Yes. But I can’t help you on my own. Please let me call Treville.”

Her hand on Constance’s wrist tightened. “He was Athos’s boss! He hates me.”

“He hates corrupt police officers more.”

Chapelle’s hand fell away. “All right. Go ahead. It’s not like I matter to anyone any more.”

“You matter to me,” Constance said firmly. “I promise I will do everything I can to keep you safe and bring Rochefort down. Will you swear an affidavit? Go to court to give evidence?”

“He won’t let me get that far. But, okay.”

Constance called d’Artagnan. “I’m all right, but she needs help. Call Treville. Tell him to meet me at the west gate of the park in half an hour. Tell him Rochefort has threatened Anna Chapelle and half killed her. We can’t involve anyone else.”

“I’m coming down there.”

“No!”

But he’d hung up. No point in calling him back, she realised, and it wouldn’t do any harm to have an extra body there in case something went wrong.

She finished cleaning up Chapelle, and did her best with her finger. “This needs a doctor.”

“It’s not the first time someone’s broken it for me. Prison isn’t a very nice place.”

“I’m sorry,” Constance said.

“So am I.”

“I have some Panadol. Do you have any water?”

“Yes.” Constance helped her find the bottle and hold it. “God, I could kill him for this.”

“Help us put him away. That’s a much better revenge.”

“Yes, it would be. What about my car?”

“I’ll retrieve it later. We’ll go in mine. Let me have your keys and your phone.”

Chapelle smiled wryly. “You don’t trust me.”

“I’m just being cautious.” She doubted anyone would let Rochefort beat them up this badly just to trap Athos, but Chapelle’s hate for Athos was pretty powerful. Probably justifiably so, but that was water under the bridge. “You can be tracked on your phone. If he’s got officers in his pocket, it’s a risk.”

“Shit, I forgot. Here, take it. And my keys.”

Constance helped her out of her car, removed the small overnight bag she’d brought with her, and locked it, then put her in Constance’s own car. “Right. Ready?”

“No. But let’s get out of here.”

They were early, but Treville and d’Artagnan arrived in the car park at the west gate half an hour after Constance’s call. “My God,” Treville said when he saw Chapelle’s state. “Has he done this before, Miss Chapelle?”

“Not to me. But yes. He’s a very dangerous man, at least as far as women are concerned.”

“Constance?” d’Artagnan put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Charlie. Sir, what are we going to do with her? We can’t take her to the station.”

“No, we can’t. For the moment, it’ll have to be my house. I live alone, and there’s no one there who can be endangered. Miss Chapelle, you can’t contact anyone there or tell them where you are. Not your family or anyone else.”

“I don’t have family, and if I had anyone else I trusted, I wouldn’t need your help. You’re not to tell Athos.”

“Of course not. I don’t want him involved in any way. Understand?” he said to Constance and d’Artagnan.

“Yes, sir,” Constance said. “Her car is still back on the other side of town. What should we do with it?”

“Leave it. If it’s impounded, all the better. It’ll look like she’s disappeared. Miss Chapelle, you do understand that your safety depends on your cooperation, don’t you?”

“I’m not stupid, Treville, even if I am just a whore.”

“I never said you were, Miss Chapelle. Constance, do you have someone you can stay with?”

“Not in London, but I guess—”

“Sir, she can stay with me. Or me with her. If you’d like, Constance,” d’Artagnan added shyly.

“I’d be happier if you were together, or at least not alone,” Treville said. “Once he finds out she’s gone, Rochefort will go berserk.”

“What about Athos?”

“There’s no reason for anyone to think she’d have gone to him. Not with their history.” Chapelle sneered, but Treville met her gaze steadily. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything is to go on as normal. Just don’t say a word.”

“So I’ll stay with you?” d’Artagnan asked Constance as Treville led Chapelle away.

“Better than me staying in your hovel,” Constance said. He only grinned. “I’ll meet you back there in half an hour.”

“Don’t go talking to any strange men.”

“Piss off, Charlie.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos walked into Athos’s house ahead of him and checked that there was nothing out that might upset him. “Are you sure about this, mate?”

“Yes.”

“And you have enough groceries?” Porthos and Aramis had bought him a load of ready-made meals to go in his freezer.

“Yes, thank you. And there’s a shop up the road, don’t forget. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Porthos really hated this, but Athos was so sure, and short of locking him in their flat, what could Porthos and Aramis do to stop him? “Got the phone? Make sure you carry it and keep it charged.”

“I know. You won’t have to worry about me.”

“I will anyway, won’t I?”

Athos smiled shyly. “I suppose you will. Can you tell Sylvie I’ll see her soon? Just...not every day.”

“Okay. You sure?”

“Porthos, go home and enjoy a night alone with Aramis. He deserves it. And thank him again.”

“No need.” Porthos gave Athos a big hug, and wished he could whisk him away back to the flat again. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Porthos left, feeling like he’d abandoned a baby kitten by the side of the road. Aramis wrapped his arms around him as soon as he walked back into the apartment. “He’ll be fine, love.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Then we’ll help. It’s better than before. He knows there are people out there who care about him, and more of us to look out for him. And, I have some good news. I found a psychotherapist who specialises in eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing, and she comes highly recommended. He hasn’t had that before, has he?”

“Don’t think so. Does it work?”

“Apparently very well. And if we can sort out his PTSD, the other issues like his depression should improve. He’s a severe case, but not incurable.”

Porthos hugged Aramis again. “If we could help him lead a normal life again, that would be brilliant. He’s got so much to give, Aramis.”

“Yes, he has. And this therapist is prepared to work with people on low incomes too. I’ll pay for it myself if I have to.”

“He gets to you, doesn’t he? He does with everyone if they get close. Sylvie adores him.”

“I think he could be happy again and I would love to see it. Like you learned to get past what you saw in the army.”

“You helped me there. I love Athos but I ain’t giving you to him.”

Aramis laughed. “No need, love. He’ll find his own someone eventually.”

Porthos went to the sink to get a glass of water, then leant on the counter and looked at his boyfriend, his long legs and his lovely eyes. “You realise this is the first night we’ve had alone in a while.”

“You mean, the kids are with the baby sitter, so we can make out on the couch?”

“And other things,” Porthos growled, and Aramis grinned. Oh yeah, they were gonna have a good night.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

D’Artagnan stayed with Constance three nights and after that, she told him to go home. “Everything’s calmed down. No one’s tried to hurt her or come near us. And you’re driving me mental, Charlie.”

He pouted. “What am I doing?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. You’re sitting around watching me, and I’m not used to it. It’s not like I’m helpless, so go home.”

“Treville—”

“Is not my father. And I outrank you so I’m ordering you to piss off.”

“Charming. But you’ll be careful anyway, won’t you?”

He really cared, she knew that. “Of course. Now you’ve got work to do, and so have I, so shoo.”

The only other person Treville had allowed into their secret was, oddly enough, Ninon Larroque. She’d taken the sworn statement from Anna Chapelle about Rochefort’s attack, and another on what she knew about his criminal connections. These were now safely tucked away at Ninon’s office. Treville was slowly putting together evidence to take down several corrupt officers, but the big fish was Armand Plessis. Treville was now sure the death of Felicity Owen was part of a plan to discredit Athos’s father.

“And the press are playing right into his hands.”

“So what’s next?” Constance asked. “We’re no closer to being able to prove he murdered Miss Owen. We can get him for the assault on Anna Chapelle but he’s not likely to even see prison on that one.”

“No. We need to find the person who killed her, because I’m sure they work for Rochefort. Once we can connect Rochefort to the murder, and the murder to Plessis, we’ll have them both.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine. Shown no sign of wanting to run off, which is good. She says she couldn’t work in her state anyway. Which is why Rochefort went for her face, I’m sure of it.”

“He’s a right bastard that one. I feel sorry for her though. If Athos’s brother did try to rape her, she shouldn’t have gone to prison.”

Treville nodded. “She wouldn't be the first woman jailed for self-defence, for sure. She doesn’t strike me as evil. Just let down and desperate to make sure she’s not dependent on anyone else ever again. Athos’s betrayal, as she sees it, really damaged her self-esteem.”

“She must have known what Rochefort was like.”

“Yes, but that’s not the same as being Rochefort. He uses her, like he used his previous mistresses, as party favours for his friends and clients. It’s ugly. After she got out of prison, she thought that was all she was good for—sex working, I mean. She doesn’t enjoy it, I’m sure. Some women do, and some women think that’s all they can do.”

“What was she like before?”

“I don’t know. I never met her before. Something tells me she was a much sweeter person back then though, or Athos wouldn't have married her.”

“I feel so bad for the two of them.”

“I’m not even going to touch that one, Constance. Let’s clear his name, and keep her safe. The rest is up to them to work out.”

Couldn’t blame him, she supposed. “He’s back at his house by the way. With a mobile phone he promises to answer. Porthos is checking on him every day.”

Treville brightened up a little. “He’s a good lad, that one. If I’d ever had a son, I’d be proud if he was half as honourable as Porthos. Or Athos.”

“Or d’Artagnan?”

Treville snorted. “Good God, no. That boy gives me a heart attack at least once a week. I hope he calms down or he won’t live to be a sergeant.”

“I’m working on him.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be fine. Back to work now.”

“Yes, sir.”

She checked her phone at her desk. There was a message from Athos.

_Hello, Porthos says I have to practise sending texts._

She grinned. _He’s right. How are you doing?_

_Very well, thank you. Aramis has a new doctor for me to see. Waiting list though._

_:(_

_What does :( mean?_

_It means ‘bugger’_

_Oh. Yes, I see. It’s a bit small on this screen.  
He said it’s not a smart phone._

_Never mind, all you need is to be able to talk and send messages. Good luck practising_

_Thank you._

He was so nice, she thought, and wondered if that woman with the little girl was interested in him. Could he cope with a girlfriend? He’d been so good looking once. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone who did fancy him, if he was tidied up.

Speaking of fancying, she was glad d’Artagnan was leaving her flat. It was too distracting, him sitting there all handsome and comfortable on her couch, and it would be totally inappropriate for her to jump her partner.

No surprise to her that being alone again didn’t bring any bogey men out of the closet. After all, there was no reason for Rochefort to connect her with Anna Chapelle.

She didn’t sleep well for all that. Every little sound seemed like someone trying to break in. _I am not going to invite Charlie to stay again because I’m a coward_. She was an adult woman and a highly experienced police officer. She didn’t need a man around for protection.

Athos texted her again the next day. _Porthos said it would do me good to have people around._

_Yes it would_

_He told me to invite someone over for supper who wasn’t him. More practice_

_He’s so cute_

_He’s very nice. I think he means Sylvie_

_To invite? Good idea_

_Is there a symbol for I just can’t?_

_No. I think you just say that_

_I just can’t_

_She’s lovely_

_That’s the problem. I don’t want her to end up like Flea_

_Invite me then. I can protect myself_

_To dinner?_

_Why not? Tonight?_

_But I can’t cook_

_That’s why god invented takeaway. Do you like Indian?_

_Yes, but I don’t really know you. It would be an imposition_

_Is that a no?_

He didn’t reply. Constance shrugged and got on with her work. Ten minutes later, she had a new message.

_I called Porthos and he told me to man up. I think that means’ Indian would be lovely’ in Porthos speak_

She laughed.

_Ok, see you_ _at seven. I’ll bring the food_

_No wine. I’ve stopped drinking_

_I’ll bring mineral water. See you then._

d’Artagnan had looked up at the sound of her laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh. I was hoping...never mind. Is he nice?”

“It’s Athos, Charlie. Porthos wants him to practice his social skills now he’s back home, and I offered to help.”

d’Artagnan smiled. “Oh! That’s nice of you. Maybe we could go out tomorrow instead?”

“Like a date?”

D’Artagnan suddenly looked a bit hunted. “Maybe I’m also practising my social skills?”

“Okay. I’ll call you that morning and see where you’d like to go.”

“Great! How are you going with the CCTV?”

“Still nothing.” They had searched dozens of hours of recordings to find someone following or talking to Felicity Owens but she only seemed to have spoken to Athos on her lunch hour, or her work colleagues. No lurking brute who worked for Rochefort, or anyone, in fact.

Buried in her work, she only ever half-heard conversations around her, but she heard someone say, “she’ll be turning tricks in ASDA’s car park by the time she’s back on the game, he hit her that hard.”

She looked around. The office was half empty, and the voice had been far enough away that she wasn’t even sure what gender the speaker had been. Marguerite Aston, another detective, walked in carrying some files. “Something wrong, Constance?”

“No. I just heard...never mind.” Constance suddenly realised that though she hadn’t mentioned Rochefort outside Treville’s office, neither she nor d’Artagnan had been that discreet talking about Athos. If one of her colleagues was working for Rochefort, they could glean quite a lot of information about where he was just by listening.

On the other hand, she knew all these people and had done for years. The chances of this unknown person having been talking about Anna Chapelle were pretty small. Instances of sex workers being bashed by their pimps were all too common, unfortunately.

She resolved to be a bit more careful though. Athos was home on his own now. She would talk to him about getting a home alarm system, just in case.

She changed into more casual clothing for her ‘date’ with Athos, because she wanted to make it clear she was there as her, not as DS Bonacieux, and keep it all relaxed. Besides, it had been really warm all day and her suit was too hot. She’d forgotten to ask Athos if he was vegetarian or allergic to anything, so she’d picked up three types of curry, one veggie, none with peanuts, and steamed rice, as well as two bottles of mineral water. Giving up the booze was a good idea, she’d thought. It couldn’t have been helping his mental state.

The man’s door was wide open _again_ as she walked up the path. “Athos? You shouldn’t leave your door open, even when it’s this hot.” She walked into the darkened house, towards the kitchen where there was a light on. “Athos?”

Someone hit her on the side of the head with something hard, and she went down, the bags of food spilling out onto the ground. She was a bit fuzzy, but she was aware someone was dragging her away from the door. Then she was lying on an uncarpeted floor.

Kitchen.

_Athos!_

She tried to get up but her body wouldn’t obey, and before she could get anywhere with it, a man standing over hit her in the face with a closed fist, knocking her down again. “Where is Anna Chapelle?”

She ignored the question, concentrating on memorising his description. That scar should be a good identifier. He pulled her up by her hair. “Where is she?”

Her position meant she could see Athos lying on the floor in the corner, eyes open and horrified, his arms bound behind him in some way with duct tape over his mouth. She wasn’t sure if he was really seeing her or seeing a memory. “No idea,” she said.

The man kept hitting her and asking the same question. She struggled as much as she could, trying to make sure he left lots of DNA and evidence on her body. Her vision was blurred and she wanted to vomit. She would pass out soon, and then he’d have to change tactics. She remembered she could scream and maybe kind Mrs Rogers would pay attention, but when she tried that, the man half choked her, and now she couldn’t do more than whisper.

He pulled out a Stanley knife and put it to her cheek. “Answer me.” When she didn’t, he sliced her down her cheek. Tears filled her eyes from the pain.

He cut her twice more, on the other cheek and across her forehead, but she didn’t speak. Blood replaced tears in her vision.

“Bitch.” He belted her in the head again with something hard, and she fell forward, throwing up. He forced her over onto her front, and then got off her. She couldn’t make her legs and arms work to stand up. While she struggled, he rummaged around in a kitchen drawer. She heard the utensils rattle, the drawer being closed, and then he was over her again. The awful pain in her back told her what he’d been looking for.

She passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

She came to, hearing the sound of a man groaning quietly. She forced her eyes open, though it was very hard to do anything. Moving brought the pain back. The knife must still be in her back.

Athos was now unbound, but curled around himself. While she’d been out, someone—her assailant she guessed—had given him a thorough bashing around the head, so his face was covered in blood. Despite that, he was conscious.

“Athos.” It didn’t get past her lips. She tried again. “‘Thos’!”

“Constance?” Athos slowly crawled to her. “Thank God. I thought you were dead.” His voice was weak, though he sounded alert enough.

She licked her lips. She was on the verge of passing out again. “Call police.”

“I already have. And Porthos.” He touched her hair, his breath catching in pain as he moved.

“Are you hurt?”

“A bit. Sorry. It’s hard to get up. You lie still. I left the knife. Better for puncture wounds.”

She closed her eyes, and he yelled at her. “Constance! Stay awake!”

She heard him trying to stand by using a chair to support him, cursing, and falling down. “‘Thos, don’t. ‘M awake.”

“Help is nearly here. Stay with me.” He crawled back next to her. “Hold on. You aren’t going to die. Constance, stay with me!”

She heard a siren, and shouting, and big reassuring boots in the hall. The cavalry were here.

She let go.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Hey, Athos.” Usually Athos waited for Porthos to call him, so this was progress.

“Porthos.”

His voice was weak and slurred. The hairs on Porthos’s neck stood up on end. “What’s wrong, mate? You sound sick.”

“Come. Constance. She’s hurt. Stabbed. I called 999.”

“Athos? Where are you?”

“House. Come. Call d’Artagnan.”

Porthos looked at Aramis. “Get your keys. Athos needs help _now_.” Aramis scrambled. On the phone again, Porthos asked, “Are you hurt too, Athos?”

“Yes. Can’t stand. Hurry.”

“Coming now. I’m calling d’Artagnan too.”

“Jesus. We need to go.” Aramis went out the front door, Porthos behind him, dialling d’Artagnan’s. “Your car, love.”

Aramis tore off as soon as Porthos was in the door. d’Artagnan wasn’t picking up. Porthos left a voice message. “Mate, it’s Porthos. Get to Athos’s house right now. Constance and Athos have both been hurt. Attacked. I think. I’m calling 999.”

He called the emergency services and reported a possible attempted murder at Athos’s address and said an ambulance was needed too. The five minutes to Athos’s house by car never felt longer.

By the time they got there, the police were just pulling up. “What’s going on?” he asked as the cops jumped out of their car and ran towards the house. _Jesus, not again._

“Stay here,” one of the officer said.

Aramis put his hands on Porthos’s shoulders. “Wait for the ambulance. I’m going inside. Try d’Artagnan again.”

Again the call went to voice mail. Porthos heard radios and distant sirens but couldn’t tell what the fuck was going on. Another police car pulled up. “In there,” Porthos said, pointing to the house. “Where the ambulance?’

“On the way. Stay back, sir.”

Curious neighbours were out in their gardens now, looking at the show. Porthos felt like shouting at them, but gritted his teeth and didn’t.

The ambulance arrived and as the paramedics went into the house, one of the cops came out and directed them inside. Porthos heard him say, “We’ll need another one.”

_Fuck_. Athos and Constance.

Two more police cars arrived, and d’Artagnan too. The street was now full of police vehicles of one kind or another. D’Artagnan ran over to Porthos. “What the hell is going on?”

“I only know what I told you. Aramis is inside.”

D’Artagnan belted into the house. One of the newly arrived cops began to move the neighbours away, and tried to push Porthos back up the road. Porthos refused to budge. “My boyfriend is in there trying to save my friend’s life, and a police officer’s. I’m not moving.”

“Sir—”

“I ain’t moving. The victim called me and I called you. I’m not some busybody.”

“Just stay out of the way.”

Porthos resisted the temptation to tell him that he hadn’t been _in_ the fucking way in the first place.

Another ambulance arrived, and had to be guided through the police cars. Aramis came out ahead of a gurney with someone on it. _Constance_. She was on her side, with an oxygen mask. Her face was covered in blood, and she wasn’t conscious, as far as Porthos could see. While the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, Aramis came to Porthos. He’d never seen that worried look on Aramis’s face before and his heart nearly stopped in fright.

“She’s been stabbed, beaten,” Aramis said quietly, in response to the question in Porthos’s eyes. “Athos is also in a bad way. Someone’s kicked him a few times in the chest, stomach.”

“Is she going to die? Is he?”

“I hope not. They’re bringing him out now.”

A gurney was taken in, and a couple of minutes later, Athos was brought out on it. He at least was conscious, just but he was as beaten up as Constance. Porthos walked alongside the gurney. “You hang in there, mate.”

“Trying...to,” Athos said weakly, smiling through the blood. “Look after d’Artagnan.”

“Will do.”

Aramis stroked the back of Porthos’s head as they watched Athos being put in the ambulance. “We’ll go up to the hospital in a bit. Just let them get there first.”

“Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“Talking to the uniformed officers. He called Inspector Treville. I expect he’ll be here soon.” Aramis hugged him. “Are you all right?”

“I’d be better if wankers stopped attacking my mates. Do they know who done it?”

“Athos was talking to the officers. Two men were in the house when he came back from a walk this afternoon, restrained him and kicked him about a bit. He was been tied up on the floor for a couple of hours before Constance arrived, and then she was attacked too.”

“What the fuck was she doing there?”

Aramis shrugged. “They were having supper. You suggested he should practise.”

“Jesus. This is my fault?”

“No, of course not. Once the man stabbed her, he beat Athos up pretty badly around the head, untied him and left. I suspect they were counting on him being incapacitated by flashbacks since there’s blood everywhere in there. But he held it together, called for help, and here we are. There’s d’Artagnan now.”

D’Artagnan was pale, his smile strained. “Thanks for calling me. Aramis, I owe you her life.”

“Nonsense. Glad to help. What’s happening now?”

“And why attack Constance?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “I can’t tell you. Right now, we need to find out who these men were, and pick them up. You should go home. Athos will be in hospital for a couple of days, I suspect.”

“Then I’m going to the hospital,” Porthos said. “You?”

“As soon as I speak to Treville. You go on ahead if you want. I’ll meet you there.”

The kid looked so miserable, Porthos gave him a hug.

“Thanks. If she dies.... I can’t think about her dying.” D’Artagnan’s voice sounded like he was about to cry. Looked like d’Artagnan cared a lot more for Constance than just as a work partner.

“She won’t die,” Aramis said, patting d’Artagnan on the shoulder. “Not for want of trying, but I think once her lung’s reinflated, she’ll be okay. Athos did the right thing, leaving the knife in. He did the right thing all around.”

“Then I owe him too.” D’Artagnan pulled away from Porthos and wiped his eyes. “I’ll see you up there, okay?”

“Yeah. We’ll look after her until you get there.”

D’Artagnan tried to smile at them, but his heart wasn’t in it. Aramis let Porthos away with an arm around his shoulders.

“Fucking hell,” Porthos breathed.

“My thoughts exactly.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

D’Artagnan hugged himself, watching Porthos and Aramis walk away. He wanted to follow them, be with Constance, but it was his job to stay and finish this, even if she was dying.

Which...he couldn’t deal with at all.

Treville arrived a couple of minutes later, and d’Artagnan ran up to his car before his guv’nor climbed out. “Report?” Treville snapped.

“Constance and Athos were both seriously injured in an attack. Athos has positively identified one of the attackers as Michael Rochefort. He said the other one was trying to get Anna Chapelle’s location out of Constance. Is she safe?”

“Yes. I moved her to my sister’s house as soon as you called because I had a feeling this was about finding her.”

“We should pick up Rochefort.”

“Leave that to me. Have you got a description of the other man?”

“Shoulder length dark hair, brown eyes, about five eight, medium build, scar below his left eye.”

“Constance gave you all that?”

“No, sir. Athos.”

“Bloody hell. I’ll ask Anna about him, and you get a sketch artist up to Athos as soon as he’s capable. He _is_ going to live?”

“Porthos’s boyfriend is a doctor. Pathologist, actually. He helped at the scene, and says they both should.”

Treville exhaled in relief. “Thank God. Go up to the hospital, take a couple of uniforms officers with you, and keep them both under guard. Until we’ve arrested Rochefort and this other man, they’re both at risk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Treville looked at him and put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay, Charles. She’s strong.”

“Yes, sir. Just...I’m worried.”

“I know. Now go do what I told you.” Treville headed off towards Athos’s house.

D’Artagnan went to the PC directing the crowd. “I need two officers with me up at the hospital.”

“Andrews and Patel can go.” She pointed at two of her colleagues.

D’Artagnan asked them to follow him up to the hospital. He was trying not to think of Constance’s face, cut up, bloodied, both her eyes puffy and bruised. And a fucking big knife in her back.

He found Porthos and Aramis both waiting at Emergency. “They won’t let us in,” Porthos said, his voice a growl of anger. “Even with Aramis helping out and everything.”

“I’m not a physician, love,” Aramis said, his hand on Porthos’s back.

“I’ll find out,” d’Artagnan said. The PCs had arrived and he called them over, then he asked at the Emergency reception about their two new patients. He left the PCs outside the cubicle where Athos was being treated, then returned to Athos’s friends in the waiting room. “She’s in surgery, he’s being evaluated. We’ll keep officers on guard over both of them. You should go home, guys.”

Porthos shook his head. “Athos can’t cope with hospitals. Did anyone tell the doctors about his PTSD? I’m his emergency contact. I need to see him.”

“Okay. I’ll clear it with them. Aramis?”

“I’m with Porthos.”

The doctor treating Athos definitely wanted to hear about his mental health issues and medication so Porthos was allowed in to talk to him. D’Artagnan and Aramis waited outside. “This is the worst thing that could have happened to Athos,” Aramis murmured. “He was doing so well.”

“He gave us a good description of the attackers, and he must have kept it together enough to call you guys and triple nine.”

“That’s a very encouraging sign, but I don’t think you can call it a cure. Damn it.” Aramis stared at the curtain around the cubicle where Athos was being cared for. “Porthos tried to insist he stayed with us. I should have pushed harder.”

“You can’t make people do things like that unless they’re sectioned. It’s not your fault. The people involved in this are big names.”

“You know who they are?”

“Yeah we do.”

“Hence the police guards.”

“Exactly.”

Aramis exhaled. “One good thing—Athos definitely didn’t kill Flea.”

“He really didn’t. But please don’t talk about this to anyone, or him. Not yet.”

Aramis nodded. “We’re both just glad he’s alive. And that Constance is. I’m sorry she was hurt.”

“Me too.” d’Artagnan’s chest went all tight again.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

The young doctor treating Athos let Porthos see him and watch while he was being checked out, though she warned him to keep out of the way. Athos smiled slightly to see him.

“How are you doing, mate?” Porthos asked.

“Been better. Constance?”

“Surgery. Aramis is sure she’ll be okay.”

“Is d’Artagnan out there?”

“Yeah, with Aramis.”

“Need to talk to him.” Athos tried to sit up and groaned.

“Don’t do that,” his doctor scolded. “You have broken ribs.”

“Thought so.” Athos was taking this amazingly well. “Porthos? I need....”

“I’ll get him for you.”

Porthos found d’Artagnan and motioned him over. “Needs to speak to you, he says.”

They went back into the cubicle. “Make it quick, guys, he needs to be x-rayed,” the doctor said.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Have you arranged a sketch artist?”

“Was about to sort one out. Are you up to it?”

“I’ll just have to be. Make Porthos go home, please.”

“Hey.”

D’Artagnan grinned at Porthos. “I don’t think I can make him do anything he doesn’t want to. He’s bigger than me.”

“You’re a police officer. Porthos, go. I’ll be fine.”

“But you hate hospitals.”

“Yes. But the worst is over. Please? They’ll just give me a lot of pain medication and make me sleep. You don’t need to watch me do that.”

“Last time I listened to you, mate, you got hurt.”

The doctor, who’d been listening with a half-grin on her face, stepped up. “He’s right, you know. We’ll make sure he’s okay. We know about his PTSD. We can make sure he’s safe.”

“Do it,” d’Artagnan urged. “No point in all of us losing sleep.”

“ _You_ will call me,” Porthos said, pointing at d’Artagnan, before turning back to Athos. “And _you_ are coming back to us when they spring you.”

“Yes, of course,” Athos said meekly. “Now go home and give Aramis a kiss for me.”

Porthos had to laugh. “I can do that.” He glared at d’Artagnan. “You tell me what’s going on or I’ll make your life a fucking misery.”

“Understood.”

Porthos gave Athos another smile, and left the room. He really hoped Athos knew what he was doing. Aramis lifted his head. “Got thrown out again,” Porthos explained.

“By the doctor?”

“Athos. Said to go home, and to do this.” He kissed Aramis on the cheek.

Aramis touched the spot and grinned. “That was nice of him.”

“Yeah. Come on. May as well fret at home as here.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Athos was moved to a private room, and the PCs d’Artagnan had brought with him, took up position outside. “No one goes in that either me or DI Treville haven’t cleared. No one at all. Porthos Duvallon and Dr Aramis Herblay are the only civilians other than his doctors, and I want you to take names and check all IDs first.”

D’Artagnan called the sketch artist who’d drawn Mrs Rogers’ impression of Rochefort, and she said she could come up the following morning if Athos was ready for her. He gave her name to the PCs on guard. As soon as he finished talking to them, his mobile rang. Treville. “Sir?”

“Anna Chapelle has identified the second attacker from Athos’s description. Peter John Grimaud, and he works for Rochefort. Strangely we don’t have him in the system at all.”

“Someone’s been at it, haven’t they?”

“Yes, they have. So you stay right where you are, and check on both our patients as often as you can. I’m going to have a chat with our dear commissioner, Louis Lafere.”

“Sir, I can’t stay awake forever. Who’ll watch out for Constance and Athos then?”

“I’ll take care of that. We haven’t found Grimaud yet. There’s an APW out, but until he’s in custody, you watch over them.”

D’Artagnan suddenly felt inadequate for the job. How could he protect the two of them...? _Porthos_. He was ex-Army and loyal to a fault to Athos. Damn, d’Artagnan shouldn’t have sent him home.

He called Porthos, expecting an earful, but Porthos was only concerned about what had happened. “Is Athos all right?”

“Yeah. Porthos, I need a favour from you. For him. He needs a guard.”

“Don’t you have two police officers up there with you?”

“I need someone I can _trust_.”

Silence. Then, “I’ll be up there in twenty minutes. What about Aramis?”

“He can come too, but it’s you I need though. Sorry to mess you around.”

“We was only watching TV. See you in a bit.”

While he waited for Porthos, d’Artagnan checked Constance’s status with the nurse at the desk. She was out of surgery and in recovery. Which meant she’d be on a ward soon, and vulnerable. He glanced at the PCs on guard. They looked like good blokes, but he didn’t know them. Even if he did, how could he tell a good cop from a bad one by looking?

He paced up and down, urging Porthos to hurry up. When the big guy came up the corridor, d’Artagnan could have kissed him. “What’s going on?” Porthos asked. Aramis wasn’t with him.

“Not here. Come into his room.” Even with d’Artagnan with him, one of the PCs asked for Porthos’s ID, which was reassuring. d’Artagnan locked the door behind them after they entered Athos’s room.

“What’s going on?” Athos was still awake, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with drowsiness. They had him on strong pain medication. “Porthos? I thought you went home.”

“No rest for the wicked, mate. d’Artagnan?”

“The man who stabbed Constance is still on the loose. His name is Peter Grimaud. He has a scar under his left eye, according to Athos. The thing is...his boss is involved in something bigger, and we have at least one bad cop, clearing arrest records and other things out of police records.”

“So you can’t trust your mates on the force.”

“Exactly. Athos, I’m sorry. We’ve let you down.”

“Not you. Not most of them. You can’t ask Porthos to guard me.”

Porthos moved in closer. “You don’t get no say, Athos. You want me to stay in here with him?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Please? I have to guard Constance too and I can’t trust it to anyone else. You were the only person I could think of asking.”

“You done the right thing. Describe this guy again?”

“Athos can do that better than me since he saw him and I didn’t. If someone comes in and you don’t like the look of them, chase them out. Call me, hit the alarm, kick up a stink.”

“Them cops on the door? Can you trust them?”

“I wish I could say yes, but I just don’t know. I’m sorry. You can say no to this.”

“Yeah, no, fuck that idea. You go sort out Constance. I’ve got this.” Porthos pulled up a chair and sat on it back to front, looking as solid and immoveable as an oak tree. “Shoo.”

“Owe you for this.”

“No, you don’t.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos sighed and looked at Athos. “Well, ain’t this something.”

“Sadly, yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. How are you doing now?”

“Like I’ll be asleep very soon, so if someone comes to stab me, don’t let them wake me up.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“It is, a little bit.”

Porthos chuckled. “Yeah, suppose. Tell me about this bloke.”

“Scar here.” Athos indicated under his left eye. “Brown hair, brown eyes, shorter than you or me. Five eight, five nine. Fit, mean, and without conscience. He sliced up Constance’s face.”

“Shit. And you had to watch.” Athos nodded, looking away from Porthos. “Did you have a flashback?”

“No. I was concentrating. I suppose that kept me anchored. Not that it did her or me any good.”

“Did they say what’s wrong with you?”

“Ribs, internal bruising. Facial bruising. I took a couple of hits to the head, but apparently I don’t have a concussion.”

“Bet it hurts.”

“Yes, it does. Porthos, I have a favour to ask. It’s a big one.”

“Go on.”

“If...anything happens to me. I mean, death. Obviously something’s already happened to me—”

“No need for this, Athos.”

His friend stared until Porthos shut up. “Okay. What?”

“My wife. Anne Dubreuil, Anne Lafere, Anne d’Athos. Inspector Treville should be able to find her under one of those names. We’re still married. I want you to find her—”

“No fucking way, Athos.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Athos closed his eyes. He seemed so small against the pillow, with his hair a mess and his face turned to mince.

Now Porthos felt like shit. Athos never asked for favours. “Tell me.”

“No, you’re right. I’ll ask d’Artagnan to ask Treville.”

“No, it’s okay. Come on, before you pass out.”

“All right. We’re still married. I never tried to divorce her, or she me. My house. It’s in my name. It’ll be hers. Make sure she gets it. I made a will, but in case my father interferes with it because of my mental health problems...make sure she gets it.”

“I will.”

“And...if you meet her, tell her, I’m sorry, and I believe her now. Say that just as I did.”

“She killed your _brother_.”

“And my brother almost certainly tried to rape her. I know that now. Please?” Athos reached out a hand to Porthos, who took it. “She was a victim too.”

“Okay. Better her than your dad, right?”

“Yes. I bought it with my own money, and some from Mum. Nothing from him. Nothing goes to him.”

“Fair enough. You ain’t gonna die, Athos.”

“Well, I hope not soon, but...it’s been on my conscience. Now I’m going to sleep. _Bon courage, mon ami_.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

Athos smiled. “‘Good luck, my friend’. I had a French friend at school who used to say that to me when we left for the long vac. Every time he said, ‘ _Bon courage, mon ami_.’”

“Good friend?”

“Yes, he was. We lost touch, but I don’t forget my friends.”

“Me neither. Go to sleep now.”

Athos closed his eyes again. Porthos kept a hold on his hand, and his eyes on the door.


	5. Chapter 5

D’Artagnan held onto Constance’s hand, sitting next to her bedside. It was already two am, though there was no chance of her waking for a bit, the nurses said. That didn’t matter.

He jumped when he heard the door open, but relaxed when he saw Treville. “Guv.”

Treville motioned him outside. “Why the hell are you sitting down in here?”

“Sir, I called Porthos. He’s stationed in Athos’s room, with the two PCs outside. Constance only came down from recovery half an hour ago. I thought I’d wait here until you arrived. Porthos is ex-Army, and knows what’s what.”

Treville grunted. “I suppose needs must. We’ve arrested Rochefort.”

“Good. My sketch artist will be here around nine.”

“All right. I’ll take over here. You relieve Porthos.”

“And...who else is coming?”

“Commissioner Lafere is sending two officers from his office in the morning.”

“Two? And that’s it?”

“It’s a start. Go.”

D’Artagnan went. As he walked out of the lift on the floor where Athos was staying, he heard a woman’s scream. He ran toward it, down the corridor, and found a nurse and the two PCs he’d left on guard clustered around a woman holding her throat, blood all over her hands. “Marguerite? She’s an officer! Get some help—”

He looked further down the corridor. There was no one outside Athos’s room. Abandoning his injured colleague, he pelted to Athos’s door, pulled it open and found Porthos struggling with a man inside. d’Artagnan leapt onto the bloke’s back, bringing him crashing backwards onto the floor.

“He’s got a knife!” Porthos yelled. d’Artagnan tried to keep the guy down, keep his knife hand from reaching Porthos or d’Artagnan himself, but he was stronger than d’Artagnan. He broke free, but Porthos picked up a chair and, with a bellow, brought down it on the guy’s body. The guy went still. D’Artagnan moved out from under him, flipped him over while he was still gasping for breath, and cuffed him.

“Call 999,” d’Artagnan ordered. “Use the hospital phone.”

While Porthos was speaking urgently into the phone, d’Artagnan called Treville. “Grimaud’s here, in Athos’s room. I’ve got him under control. Sir, I think he’s stabbed Marguerite Aston. She’s outside in the corridor.”

“Stay there, d’Artagnan. Do not leave Athos’s room.”

D’Artagnan kept an eye on Grimaud, while walking over to the bed. Athos was awake, but staring into space. d’Artagnan nudged at Porthos and indicated the phone. “Give it to me. You take him.”

D’Artagnan told the operator who he was and what was needed, while Porthos held Athos’s hand and spoke quietly. Athos calmed down, his eyes sad but alert. When d’Artagnan hung up, Porthos turned to him. “How the fuck did he get past your blokes?”

“I think he tried to kill one of our detectives.” D’Artagnan wanted to check on Marguerite, but Treville had told him to stay. And something at the back of d’Artagnan’s mind told him that Marguerite’s presence at the hospital was neither coincidence nor benign.

Athos had gone back to sleep by the time Treville arrived. Behind him, stood three uniformed officers. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, guv. The prisoner might be a bit bent up.”

“I hit him with a chair,” Porthos growled.

“Good. He deserves it.” Treville turned to the uniformed sergeant behind him. “Arrest him on suspicion of GBH, attempted murder and murder, and keep him in close custody. If anything happens to him or he escapes, I’ll be coming for you personally, Stevens.”

“Yes, sir.”

D’Artagnan made way for the three officers to take Grimaud away. “Marguerite?”

“Being taken care of. She’ll be under arrest shortly too. She’s one of Rochefort’s.”

“Christ.”

Treville walked over to the bed and looked at Athos. “How is he?” he asked Porthos.

“He’d be better if your blokes could protect him instead of setting him up. How’s Constance?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Sir, who’s watching her?”

“A PC I trust. But you better get back up there, d’Artagnan.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“Right here. I should have been here before. Off you go.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos picked up the chair he’d thrown and set to rights. “You can have it,” he said to d’Artagnan’s boss. “I’ll get another one.”

“You could go home. I’m Detective Inspector Treville, by the way. We’ve got this covered. Thank you for saving his life.”

“You’re welcome, but I ain’t going nowhere. I ain’t seen you before in my life and you sure as fuck haven’t been here before to help him.”

“Porthos.” Athos was awake again. “Don’t be mean to him.”

“Yeah? And who the fuck is he?”

“My old guv’nor.”

“One of them tossers that let you rot.”

“No. It’s complicated.”

“Like fuck it is.”

Treville held up his hand. “No, Athos, he’s right. How are you?”

“Glad to see you again, sir.”

“I wish it had been under better circumstances. We let you down. It won’t happen again.”

“Nice words,” Porthos growled.

Treville looked at Porthos. “I’ll make sure they’re more than that. Would you trust me to look after him now?”

“No. My boyfriend is coming to pick me up in the morning and that’s when I’ll go. Not before.”

“Then we better have some coffee, I suppose. There’s a machine downstairs. I’ll get it. What do you have?”

“No, let me. You stay here and look after him. While you’re at it, you can explain why you’ve let him cope on his own for so long.”

There, that’s him told, Porthos hoped. The nurse at the ward desk told him where the coffee machine was, and he decided to take the stairs, stretch his legs. Aramis had only texted him a few minutes ago, so he was still awake.

_Go to sleep, love. It’s all over_

_Can’t. Miss you._

_Softie. We caught the bad guy. Fucking mess tho_

_Want me to come get you?_

_Nah. When we planned is good enough. Sleep?_

_Yes, I’ll try. Love you_

_< 3_

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Waking up was good. It meant she wasn’t dead. Waking up in a bed instead of on a floor was also good.

Waking up with bandages on her face and an ache in her back and everywhere else was not good.

Alive was _very_ good though.

The light was too bright, and Constance wondered why some bastard had left the light on. But then she realised it was the sun coming through the window of a room. A hospital room.

Which came with a built in d’Artagnan, apparently. He was sleeping on her bed, cheeky sod. She poked him. She had to poke him three times. He came awake with a jerk and a “Huh?”. Then he sat up and smiled at her.

“Constance!”

“Charlie. Why are you asleep in my room?”

“Guarding. Treville’s orders. Why did you wake me up?”

“Some guard, sleeping on the job.”

“Give over. It’s been a hell of a night.” He sat up straighter and stretched. “How are you?”

“Awake. How’s Athos?”

“Okay. Good, actually. I should call Treville.”

She motioned him forward, and grabbed his collar. “No. First tell me e _verything_.”

“I don’t know everything. I’m not sure he does. But Rochefort is under arrest, so is Grimaud, who’s the bloke who stabbed you. And Marguerite Aston, um.”

“Um?”

“We think she might have been working with Grimaud, maybe to get into the hospital. He cut her throat.”

“Oh my God.”

“She’s alive, or she was last time I heard anything. What else...um...I think I’m falling in love with you.”

She stared at him. “You?”

He ducked his head. “Yeah. But it’s okay if you don’t feel the same. We can just forget about it and I’ll apply—”

She tugged at his collar again. “Shut up and kiss me, you prat.”

He grinned and did as she asked, stroking his hand through her hair. “I was worried sick. I thought I’d lose you.”

“You’ll never get rid of me, Charlie. But we can’t stay partners.”

“That’s okay. So long as I get to have you the rest of the time.”

He kissed her again, which was very nice. She did wonder who’d taught him _that_ well.

When they parted, she patted his cheek. “Better call Treville now. I want to know how Athos is. And Marguerite. Is it true?”

“He thinks so. I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She lay back on the pillow. Such a mess.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos was knackered. When he climbed into Aramis’s car, Aramis handed him a coffee, two sugars and milk, the way he liked it. “God I love you,” Porthos said before taking a big slurp, then kissing his boyfriend on the cheek.

“I see you have your priorities right.” Aramis put the car into gear and they set off.

“Love, after the night I’ve had, caffeine’s all that standing between me and a coma.”

“I completely understand. Do you want me to buy you breakfast somewhere, or take you home and make it?”

“Home, if you don’t mind. I’ll probably fall asleep on the eggs.”

“That would be a waste. I’ll make you bacon instead.”

Aramis helped him up the stairs and shoved him carefully against the wall once they were inside the door so he could kiss the life out of Porthos. “I love you without needing you to buy me coffee,” Aramis said against his ear.

“Me too. But I don’t half need a shower, unless you’re planning to muck me up again.”

Aramis tugged gently on his beard. “I am, but after you eat and get some sleep. Go on and have a wash.”

A shower woke him up again, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. Long enough to eat and get into bed, he hoped.

Aramis had made more coffee and had bacon and eggs on the go. He’d set the table and put juice next to Porthos’s plate. “Nearly ready. Have some orange juice. And tell me what the hell happened after I dropped you off.”

“Nothing much. Just a deranged murderer breaking into Athos’s room after having stabbed the cop who’d been helping him and his nasty boss do all kind of evil shit.” Aramis’s eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “Oh, and d’Artagnan’s boss has been sheltering Athos’s missus from her boyfriend, who is the same bloke the deranged murderer is working for. And all this, we think is to fuck up Athos’s dad.”

“You know, coffee may not be enough for this. I think I need booze.” But he poured Porthos’s coffee and kissed his cheek without heading for the whisky. “Once again, but slowly. And how’s Constance?”

“Awake, good. Kissing d’Artagnan. They’re cute as fuck together.”

Aramis laughed. “I can imagine. Seems I missed out a lot by not going up there with you.”

“Glad you didn’t, love. This Grimaud guy, he’s the deranged murderer, scared the living shit out of me. Took me and d’Artagnan both to hold him down.”

“Dare I ask how he got into the room in the first place? I thought the police were guarding both of them.”

“I’d like to know that too. I ain’t that impressed with that mob at the moment.”

Later, in bed, and drowsing in Aramis’s arms, Porthos said, “I thought Athos might punch Treville when he said what he’d been up to with his missus. But Athos had already asked me to promise that she gets his house if he dies.”

“Athos wouldn’t like being lied to. Who does?”

“Treville didn’t lie. He just didn’t tell him. Mostly to keep Rochefort off him, but because Athos is the way he is. You know.”

“Athos has PTSD. He’s not a moron, and certainly not incapable of dealing with the facts. I think we all need to start treating him like an adult, even if he’s ill.”

“He done well tonight. Last night, I mean. I think he might get better after all. With this eye movement thing.”

“I hope so. I hope DI Treville doesn’t abandon him again.”

“He won’t,” Porthos said. “And if he does, I’ll thump him. He _promised_ , Aramis.”

“Then I expect he’ll stick around. Go to sleep, love. I plan to wake you up in the _nicest_ way.” Aramis waggled his eyebrows.

 _Oh yeah._ Porthos loved sleepy blowjobs.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Three months later, Porthos and Aramis hosted lunch at the flat. It was a bit of a squash, seeing how they had three police officers, one former police officer, and his girlfriend to fit around the table in the living room, but they managed. d’Artagnan and Constance were inseparable, still in the first flush of love. Athos and Sylvie were doing a lot of staring into each other’s eyes too. Treville watched both couples with unconcealed contentment.

“Reminds me of how we used to be,” Porthos whispered in the kitchen.

Aramis kissed his cheek. “I thought we were still like that.”

“Oh yeah, we are.”

Lunch had been lasagne with salad and bread, wine and mineral water and juice for refreshments. Dessert was a trifle because Porthos loved it and Aramis made a perfect one. As they set the bowl down on the table, Athos rose to his feet. “If you don’t mind, Sylvie and I have an announcement. Darling?”

Sylvie grinned. “We’re engaged.”

“Oh, lovely,” Aramis said, clapping and leaning over to kiss Sylvie on the cheek. “Congratulations to both of you.”

“And that’s not all,” Athos said. “I’m moving into her place, and she’s going back to teaching while I look after Annie and Bernie. I’ll also be doing a science degree with the Open University. Not sure what I’ll do with it, but I thought I’d get the degree and then think about it.”

Treville got to his feet, holding his glass of mineral water. “To Athos and Sylvie, two people who deserve happiness more than any couple I’ve ever met. Sorry, Constance.” Constance only grinned while d’Artagnan spoke into her ear. Porthos expected there might be another engagement announcement from that pair before much longer.

Constance had been back at work about a month now. The scars on her face were a lot better but still red. She’d been told they would fade a lot more though. She and d’Artagnan were working together despite their openly declared relationship, because Treville had lost several detectives and other officers in the clean out after Rochefort was remanded. Rochefort was spewing his guts, more than happy to drop Armand Plessis and anyone else he could think of, right in it. Athos’s father hadn’t resigned, and had in fact been given more money and manpower to fight organised crime and its ties to the Met. D’Artagnan was due to sit his sergeant’s exam soon, and Treville hoped to keep him and Constance both at his station and work with the new recruits.

Athos had put his house on the market, after meeting his wife with Ninon, Treville, and Porthos to supervise. At that meeting, Athos had said to Anne what he’d told Porthos to say if he’d died. She had been sneering and hostile at first, but when he told her he was giving her the house, or the proceeds, whichever she wanted, she started to cry. And when he said he believed her about his brother, she’d fallen into his arms and let him hold her.

But not for too long. “What will you do? I can help more if you want,” Athos had asked.

She’d dabbed at her eyes. “Emigrate, I think. Perhaps France. I don’t need more from you, Athos. This is more than I ever hoped you’d give me.”

He’d taken her hand. “You only have to ask.”

“I do want a divorce now.”

“Of course. A clean start, a new life. You deserve it, Anne.” She’d got a little weepy again, but smiled brightly back at him. No fainting flower, her.

She was still under protection until Rochefort’s trial could take place, because Plessis would dearly love to shut her mouth, but Treville believed the worst was over for them all now.

Constance and d’Artagnan had to leave at four, because they were driving up to see his parents over the weekend. Athos and Sylvie stood to go as well. “I don’t want Mum to overload herself,” Sylvie said. She squeezed Athos’s hand as she looked at Porthos and Aramis. “I can’t thank you two enough for bringing this guy into my life.”

Porthos grinned as Aramis put his arm around him. “I knew you’d be good for him.”

“And him for me.”

Athos gazed at her fondly. “Mostly you for me, darling. It’s almost like Porthos planned it all to happen this way.”

D’Artagnan whispered to Constance loud enough for them all to hear. “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?”

**Author's Note:**

> I've played fast and loose with the actual Metropolitan procedure for handling a murder, which is to set up a murder squad at Scotland Yard to handle it, though the rest is as correct as I can make it. All the characters are fictional, and no insult is intended to the real police commissioner or the police at the time of writing.
> 
> The treatment mentioned for Athos is real, and effective. Anything else of a medical nature should not be considered advice!
> 
> All comments, criticisms and corrections dearly loved and craved!


End file.
